Off the Deep End
by Lennox Case
Summary: Tell me, Sherlock. Do you suppose that if I had not met John first all those years ago, I would be the one standing on that ledge and not you?
1. Preludium

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><p><strong>Off the Deep End<strong>

_Chapter 1_

Preludium

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><p><em>1989, young kid, champion swimmer, came up from Brighton for a school sports tournament, drowned in the pool. Tragic accident. You wouldn't remember it. Why should you?<em>

"Um…hm, you…You told me once that you weren't a hero. Um…there were times when I didn't even think you were human, but let me tell you this. You were the best man and most human, human being that I've ever known and no one will ever convince me that you told me a lie, okay? So, there."

_A lie…_

Sherlock pressed his fingers against the lapel of his Belstaff coat, feeling for the thick envelope against his chest. Already, its contents had been engrained into the mind of the world's "former" consulting detective, but it was only now that its relevance was made apparent. Seventeen months ago he would have been incapable of realizing something of this nature; still, so much has happened since then. Was sentiment the culprit?

Sentiment explained why John was standing there over his grave; it explained the letter Sherlock held in his hand. The high arching letters of his name hand-written on the front and the broken seal of an M on the back could only lead back to one person.

* * *

><p><em>To my dearest Sherlock,<em>

_With the unfortunate chance that you are reading this, I have lost our little game. Hooray for you! But I suppose it's the same for me. After all, you've managed to keep me entertained to the end. I have to say, Sherlock, that I'm very pleased with your progress. Very pleased, indeed. I would love to hear how you managed to survive that fall though, but I'm afraid our correspondence will end with this letter._

_You're probably wondering, "Well, this is so unlike Jim!" and you are right! It's just that with the past few days, I've been feeling a little like "them". Sickening, I know. To feel the need to part a little of my soul onto another, to assure myself that my thirty-three years at life have not been for naught—but don't you dare think that I feared death! Oh no! Death has been an old friend that I've met time and time again. The only difference now is that I've finally been invited to the party!_

_But I should be getting to my point. Time waits for no one, after all! You see, Sherlock, although you are the main distraction in my life, there is another thing that's been leaving me on edge—almost like a thorn in my side that I can't seem to be rid of. Can you guess what it is? No, I suppose not. You can see so far into things that you fail to see just what's in front of you. But if you did, well, that wouldn't be you. And we can't have that._

_I'm referring to your loyal lapdog, your constant companion, Johnny-boy! But why? Wouldn't you like to know, Sherlock? Well, I suppose we'll start with a riddle, one final game between us! Here it is._

_Do you think, Sherlock, that if I had not met John all those years ago, I would have been the one standing on that ledge and not you?_

* * *

><p><strong>London, 1989<strong>

"Thank you, Ms. Friedman. Best of luck to your school." Margot Friedman handed the last of the registration forms to the young woman at the desk, making a slight snort at the incompetency of her comment. Luck was not something she needed this year after all, but her vain thoughts were interrupted when she felt an excited nudging at her arm.

"There he goes! Brilliant! Just what I'd expect from Powers. You should have brought him sooner, Margot."

"What are you saying, Randall?" she said, swatting his arm away. "He just barely qualified this year due to his age. Now Carl, easy on the warm-up!" she called towards the chaotic splashing.

"And just like you asked I've managed to request some reporters to come in a few days. Just in time to see his last event, eh?"

"Hm…well, it would do well for the publicity of the school. Now, Carl—!" she said, stepping forward.

"He's in lane four. King Edward's is in lane one."

"Is he really?" She pushed the plastic rims of her glasses higher and squinted. "Oh yes, of course," she lied. She walked to the edge of the lane and peered down at the boy ripping his goggles and cap off triumphantly. "Carl, save your energy," she managed to call over his splashing. "The one hundred meters isn't for another hour. Let the others have their warm-up."

"Yes, Ms. Friedman." Carl climbed out of the pool reluctantly and walked past the teacher to join a group of boys wearing the same color swim shorts as him. "So?"

"That was great," said Harold, handing him a towel. "You're definitely going to show everyone up!"

"Of course," replied Carl, scratching his chest. "I mean did you see the face of that kid in the next lane?"

"Could'a fooled him," added Barry. "They won't know what's comin'."

"You're so lucky, Carl. I heard Ms. Friedman say they might let you compete with the older kids in the one thousand free."

"Well, Daryl—"

"Attention, you all," interrupted Ms. Friedman, clapping her hands. "Now, has everyone warmed up? They'll be starting soon so we best make our way upstairs." She was just about to lead the boys to the stairwell when she glanced back at her troupe. "Hm…one, two…four…eight…twelve… Oh, not again. Where's Jim?" she sighed. The boys looked around, shrugging. "Cole, Marcus, you two are in his grade. When did you last see him?"

"Um, Ms. Friedman," chirped Daryl. "I think I saw him return to the lockers after his warm up."

"That boy…" she said, pressing at her temple. "Cole, could you lead the rest of the boys to the bleachers? I'll see if I can—"

"No, I'll get him, Ms. Friedman," said Carl. "I left something behind."

"Oh, thank you, Carl. You are too kind."

* * *

><p>Carl walked down the aisles of lockers and stopped when he saw a boy sitting at the far end of the benches. The white jacket he wore bore the name of their school, and he stared apathetically to the wall across from him, letting Johann Sebastian Bach steal his attention through his headphones. Mindlessly, he had been tapping away at the notes on his kneecap when he suddenly felt a large hand push on his back, sending him crashing forward into the row of lockers.<p>

"Whatcha spacing out for, Jim?" Jim turned his head to the sound of the laughing that had overcome 'Preludium in E Major', internally groaning that he had been forced back into reality. "Oh sorry, didn't mean to mess with your fancy Discman. Did I break it?"

"Not yet," he mumbled, turning the player off.

"What?"

"No, I said." Jim stood and carefully slid the player into its designated spot in his bag. It was one of the only things his father had personally given him after all. Carl watched the action, letting his greedy eyes narrow at the thought that someone like Jim could own such fancy things. But Jim knew, and he waited for Carl to have the next word to allow himself to pacify his own jealousy.

"Well," began Carl as if on cue. "Not sure if you noticed the new trainers my father bought me after I won the championship." He had already opened his own locker and brought out the clean, white and navy blue shoes onto the bench as if it were a pedestal. "Limited edition, eh? Don't even think these have come out onto the market yet."

He knew. Everyone knew. Carl had not bothered to stop pestering the team on the entire bus ride from Brighton about them. Jim glanced down at the large pair, already having made notice of the third set of laces they bore along with the subtle scent of chemical from having been cleaned too many times. So Carl Powers did have a heart, even if it was just to his own belongings. He had returned to his locker and was busy replacing the eczema cream that had washed off in the pool. Not much good it did him, though. Carl still scratched like a monkey for probably most of his waking hours, Jim thought.

Jim closed his locker and continued on past Carl when the back of his collar was yanked backwards. "Hey, who said you could leave without me?" Jim exhaled loudly from his nose, letting that translate into any of the snide things he could have thrown at him. "What was that? Hey!" he said, pressing Jim's shoulder harshly against a locker handle. Jim winced and glared up at Carl who had now stood to trap him in place. How could a kid two years younger than he was be so tall and strong? Well then again, Jim had always been small for his age. "I don't know where you get all your attitude from but you don't even swim well at all! You're the weakest here and always have been. Your daddy's probably the one who bought your way onto the team. Probably couldn't stand the thought of having his own son do nothing but sit alone in the corner of the schoolyard all day."

Jim clenched his teeth and clawed at the metal against his back, ignoring the dull pain in his shoulder. "But that's who you are, ain't it? Slim Jim! Always the weakest and the last. I'd be surprised if you could even finish the measly fifty meters today. I mean, it's your only event for the whole meet, right? Wouldn't want daddy to see you fail at it, would you?" Carl released his hold and turned to gather his things into his locker. He then swung his swim jacket over his shoulder and walked out.

Jim had not moved. His heart was beating so fast, yet he remained livid. His shaking hand dug into his pocket to retrieve an asthma inhaler, but as Jim stared down at the thing in his hand, he resolved not to let something like that suffocate him. He quietly slowed down his breaths and followed out after.

* * *

><p>"Alright, Carl, the third heat's about to get ready. It's time you head down," said Ms. Friedman, squinting at the list of events on her clipboard. "And you, too, Daryl. You'll be in lane three next to Carl."<p>

Carl paused and glanced sharply at Daryl. "You never told me that you were doing the one hundred meters."

Daryl, like a deer caught in headlights, froze at the sudden accusation. "W-Well, I thought it'd be nice to try, you know—"

"But, you only do backstroke," added Carl pointedly. It was as if whatever Carl Powers said was law above all else.

"Now hurry on, you two," interrupted Ms. Friedman, turning back around. Carl turned for the steps first after clicking his tongue in Daryl's direction.

"Well, get goin'" said Barry, pushing Daryl forward, who had been too stunned to move. Once he was out of earshot, Barry turned to Harold sneering. "Can't believe he pulled that one."

"Yeah, Carl's gonna get pissed. I swear, Daryl can be so stupid sometimes." Jim, who had been sitting a couple bleachers behind the pair, snorted a little too loudly. They both turned.

"And what are you laughin' at?"

Jim's smirk disappeared in an instant. "I didn't say anything."

"No, but you thought something."

_Which is more than what you lot could do combined_, thought Jim. "I just…"

"Just what?"

"I just thought it was _funny_ that your group was the type to talk behind each other's backs." The words came out like venom that he had been holding in for too long. However, the moment he said it, he felt his adrenaline turn cold.

Both Barry and Harold exchanged glances and looked incredulously at Jim. "Don't think you know anythin' about us. You don't even have any friends of your own," chided Barry.

"Yeah, you're lucky old Friedman is here or I'd sock you in the jaw again," whispered Harold.

When they both turned around, Jim instinctively reached up and rubbed his jaw. He still remembered the pain from two weeks before. Fortunately, his father had been abroad as usual and the caretaker had been gullible enough to believe his split lip had come from simply falling at school. Even the teachers turned a blind eye.

Jim's gaze fell on Friedman, who had been too engrossed in reading the list of schools. She held the clipboard at various distances to compensate for her poor vision despite still being in her fifties. Probably glaucoma, thought Jim. He prided himself in remembering that it was only after this year that he would not have to see any of these faces again.

"Oh, how I wish the coach could have been here to join us," said Ms. Friedman. She finally tossed the clipboard aside and squinted out over the railing. "Tell me, they lined up yet?" The remaining members of the team crowded at the edge. Jim looked at their backs from the bleachers and could not help but think they looked like a bunch of mindless ducklings following after their mother.

Below, the swimmers mounted their blocks at the blow of the whistle. Carl stretched his goggles over his eyes and gripped the edge of the platform. He glanced to Daryl on his left who had kept looking back to make sure his feet were properly placed. _What a joke_, thought Carl with a sneer.

"Swimmers take your marks," called the referee. For just a moment, only the sound of a sharp inhale echoed throughout the area. _Beep._

Jim heard a single loud splash followed by the continuous sound of water being torn apart. The cheers of his teammates alternated from the name of their champion swimmer to their school. He stood on the bleachers and just barely caught lane four within view, just in time to see Carl's flip turn off the opposite wall. His form through the water was swift and decisive, and that left Jim with an uncomfortable feeling of awe. Just looking at Carl Powers in what seemed to be his natural domain was certainly a sight. He had the proportions of a boy midway through adolescence to the point in which it seemed he was competing in the wrong age group.

"Is that Daryl?" Suddenly, all cheers from Jim's team stopped for a moment to be replaced by a hesitant silence. Subconsciously, Jim had gone to the railing and peaked over the shoulder of a stupefied Barry, who exchanged glances with an equally stunned Harold. But before the surprise could pass, however, the timekeepers had retreated to the scoring desk. Carl took off his goggles and beamed up to the balcony only to have his smile falter after looking at all the faces. He spun around to see Daryl already beside him, who was just beginning to remove his cap and goggles as well.

"When did you—?"

* * *

><p>"Carl, it was nothing," pleaded Daryl. "A-And you still wo—"<p>

"Forget it!" Carl slumped down on the bleachers and hid his face from view with a towel; meanwhile, Daryl had stood beside hesitantly like a wet dog put out in the rain. Jim, who now had the entire railing to himself glanced down just in time to see the swimmers of the two hundred individual medley climb out of the water. None were from his school judging from the lack of white swim caps, but Jim made a double take when he saw the times listed, particularly the one from the middle lane.

_That one's fast._ In fact, the boy from King Edward's was nearly on par with Carl Powers had he only taken his freestyle lap into account.

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><p>"Jim, it's your turn to get ready now." Ms. Friedman said with finality as if checking off the last thing on her to-do list. Jim took his time removing his shirt, finally fitting in with the rest of the team.<p>

Now if there was anything to brighten Carl Powers' spirit, it was for the exact opposite happen to Jim. "Don't drown." Jim could see the sneer from beneath the towel, and Barry and Harold had not bothered to hide their snickering from Friedman. Glancing back to the bleachers, Jim focused on the pocket of his discarded jacket. No, he didn't need it, he told himself.

Jim gripped onto the railing of the stairwell, treating each step like it were his last. Walking along the length of the pool, he gulped at the gradual yet steady change from light to dark blue. _It's just one lap_, thought Jim. _That's all._

At block one, Jim fumbled with his goggles which resulted with laughing from above. "Now boys!" He heard Friedman hush at them. The whistle blew once and Jim made sure he properly had them on before the other swimmers took their place before the blocks. The second long whistle alerted them to take their positions, and Jim had still been adjusting his feet while everyone else waited for the starting signal.

"On your marks!" _Beep._

The next thing Jim knew he was suffering from what felt like an Indian burn all across his front side. And despite that, the remainder of his body was shocked with cold as he began to sink. He saw his arms flailing above his head while the sunlight through the surface peaked down as if to mock him. Before the panic set in, Jim managed to claw through the icy blue until his lungs met their much needed counterpart. Already, the majority of the swimmers were more than halfway through the fifty meters, and Jim was just barely wadding near the starting block. But, there was no time for that.

Following with the method that the coach had taught him, he threw his right arm over his head and into the water. He propelled himself with the basic kicks for it had already been too late to begin the proper way, like the way he had seen at the Olympics once before. He still remembered the smell of the chlorine from where he and his father sat. But now, that smell was all around him and he found that the only way to keep moving forward was to not think about swimming at all. He ignored the water that had slipped through his goggles, the pain clamping down on his muscles, and even the sounds of the cheers that were for all but him. He just had to make it to the other end—not to make Carl Powers see, but just to simply finish something he had already started.

And it was done. Jim's fingers felt the tile on the wall and his toes just managed to touch the bottom. At this point, the only splashes came from lane one as the remaining swimmers had already climbed out. All eyes were on Jim, and it was only now that all the pain and all the embarrassment had caught up with him. It was quiet where he stood, alone in the water, and Jim was aware of every sound he made as he tried to get out. He cursed his weak arms and slid again. However, a pair of hands held on to his and pulled him out ever so easily.

"Hey, are you alright? Wow, you just kept going… It was fantastic!" Jim tore off his goggles and looked to the person who still tightly gripped his hand. Aside from his uncanny look of awe, Jim was surprised that this person was from a different school, judging from the red swim jacket he wore. Panting, his head dropped and he saw the name written on the left side of the chest.

'Watson'.

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><p><em>Yes, Sherlock. That day was the beginning of the Jim Moriarty you know—the world's only consulting criminal.<em>


	2. Air

**Hello! Thank you for picking up this bit of fiction. It was written in the hopes of giving an explanation for the life of James Moriarty from Sherlock BBC. Research was done on the show, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's characters, and real world products and locations. Please feel free to review and thank you again for joining in!**

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><p><strong>Off the Deep End<strong>

_Chapter 2_

Air

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><p>She had to be joking. She had to be.<p>

Jim stared down at the large 112 printed on the thick plastic attached to his room key. He saw the same exact number on the key across from him, fisted in the capable grip of Carl Powers.

"Alright, everyone off to your rooms," chimed Ms. Friedman. "Harold, don't make that face. You simply have to be in a room of three; there's nothing else we can do. Now, I don't want to hear of any of you running about in the halls or lobby. We have another busy day tomorrow."

"Ms. Friedman," called Carl. "I don't mind switching with Harold."

"Nonsense, Carl," she smiled. "That's very kind of you to offer, but we all have to go in alphabetical order." She then turned around to head off to her own single.

"Were you about to make me room with Jim?" Harold broke in after.

"You shut it," Carl hissed. He than glared at his new roommate and strode down the hall. Jim sighed and followed slowly after, damning the fact that M and P were only apart by two letters.

* * *

><p>"Out."<p>

Jim had just placed his bag on the lumpy mattress when he turned to the bed behind him. "What?"

"You heard me. Out. I don't want you in here." Carl pointed to the door with a brusque snap of his thumb.

"What are you talking about? No one can be—"

"Don't make me pound you!" Carl had stepped forward with his fist pulled back near his head, making Jim automatically flinch. Carl put down his arm and laughed. "Was only joking...maybe."

Jim mentally cursed that he had made himself look vulnerable. Avoiding eye contact, he slung his bag over his shoulder and made for the door. "You can come back after I've fallen asleep. Won't be for a while though." He could still hear his laugh echo even after he turned the corner.

* * *

><p>Jim curled up into the pit of one of the couches in the empty lobby. His bag was beside him covering his feet, and the wire of his headphones trailed from his lap up to his head. He had gone back to tapping notes on the armrest feeling the cool material beneath his hand. He recognized it was the kind of fabric used in many hotels in the city, the type that would make a zipping noise if you ran your fingernails across it. Jim had often encountered it whenever he and his father went on trips, but it had been a while since something like that had happened.<p>

He took a deep inhale and closed his eyes when the track moved on to one of his favorites. Finally, he had gotten back the time to return to himself—to his own world like he had done in the locker room earlier that day. It was nice having no one around, just him and his Bach album. No one to—

"Hello!"

...disturb him. Jim's eyes opened slowly and he flashed a glare to the boy to his left, standing beside the far end of the couch. His gaze relaxed slightly when he found it was not someone from his team. In fact, he was surprised another team was staying at this shabby hotel as well.

"Mind if I join you?" Jim gave a curt shake of his head and reluctantly removed his headphones, remembering his father's words. He had only been given his Discman on the condition that he still upheld his manners after all. Jim sat up straight at the seat's shift in weight, and he remained still with the small box on his lap for fear of making any sudden movements. "That's a neat thing you got there. Is that the latest?"

"Yeah, my father said it hasn't come out yet." Jim still failed to make eye contact and instantly regretted having brought his father's present along with him. It would have been kept safe at home.

"I'm John. John Watson. Nice to meet you..." Maybe he should have just stayed at home, Jim thought to himself. He would not have had to suffer through all the torment the day has brought, and there were still three days le— "Um, James right?"

"What?" He finally brought up his eyes to meet his.

"That's what it says on your bag." The boy stuck a finger at the name under his school's emblem. Already, he had placed a bent leg onto the seat and draped his right arm along the backing. Jim took a quick scan and recognized the face that spoke to him now. He could also tell this boy hailed from Chelmsford, had just come back from holiday at the beach, and had a careless older brother.

"It's Jim, actually," he said sternly.

"You go by a nickname? Harry goes by one, too. Gets mad whenever anyone calls her Harriet," laughed John.

Fine, older sister. The important issue on Jim's mind, however, was why this boy was speaking to him in the first place. True, they were both wearing their own school's swim jackets, but he could not fathom why one would associate with the competition.

"Oh, Harriet's my—"

"Sister. I know."

"Huh?"

"Nothing, nevermind." A deafening silence sat between them, and Jim considered if it would have been wiser to keep his trap shut.

"So what event did you swim today?"

Jim inhaled sharply. Was this person oblivious to the fact that only their voices were the ones echoing in the lobby?

"The, um, fifty meters," said Jim, glancing around for movement. But, he brought his eyes back to John when the latter made no response.

"Hold on!" John said, his countenance steadily illuminating. "You're that kid from lane one! That was a great swim you did today."

"I came in last," replied Jim monotonously.

"But you finished. I mean compared to your start, you really impressed everyone there. You should have seen their faces; they were all speechless!"

"What are you talking ab—?"

"John," called a voice near the lift. "I've been looking for you. Come along."

"Coming, Coach!" John stood and glanced down at Jim. "Pleasure to meet you, James. See you tomorrow then!" Jim stared at the pair until they disappeared from the ground floor.

"It's...Jim."

* * *

><p>That night was cold. Cold, dark, and silent.<p>

When all the senses are devoid of what is necessary and natural, there are only two possible outcomes. One: a panic takes over the body, rendering it useless. And two: the mind invites the new sensation, allowing the body to survive in a new state.

Only the first option had occurred to Jim.

Once the fear had set in, he had nothing but to wait for his consciousness to fade—as if the water that had been pressing down on his body had seeped into his lungs to fill them to the brim.

* * *

><p>Jim shot up to the sound of the alarm clock, causing his headphones to tumble down to his lap. Gasping, he dove for the pocket of his jacket hanging on the bed frame, but he froze before he could retrieve his hand. His eyes narrowed at the thought that he relied on something like this.<p>

_Fight it_, he told himself. _You don't need it!_

Eventually, Jim let go of the small item and took the time to match his breathing with the ringing of the alarm. He reached for the snooze and saw that beyond it was an empty, unkempt bed. _Well, __the morning could have been worse._

Jim brought his palm to his face and sighed; he could remember nothing from his dream save for the feeling of suffocation. He picked up the Discman at his side and pressed play, watching the numbers flash briefly before going dead. Jim scoffed at the irony; 'Air' had been on repeat the entire night. It was the same track he had been listening to last evening before his encounter with...

He sighed again. Well, at least he brought spare batteries.

* * *

><p>"Oh, hey Jim," said Daryl, handing him a plate.<p>

Jim nodded his thanks. "Good morning," he replied curtly. Daryl smiled that sheepish way he always did and moved on to pick at the tray of scrambled eggs. Jim eyed him warily; he could never understand Daryl. He was one of the nicer kids at school but at the same time, quite a pushover. It was probably one of the reasons why he attracted Carl Powers' attention. Jim always felt that if Carl had not existed, Daryl would be one of the shining students without having to bear the stigma of low self esteem.

Jim had just finished picking out the strawberries from a pile of fruit salad when he saw the red jackets from King Edward's enter the small dining area. So, they really were the only two schools staying here. He caught a glance at Friedman and saw her adjust her chair so they would be out of her view. She leant over to the person across from her table that Jim recognized as the man she had been speaking to yesterday. Something about reporters and cameras, perhaps?

"Hurry up, Slim Jim!"

Jim put down the tongs and felt his brows furrow. Carl instantly grabbed them, and Jim automatically moved aside before he could have been shoved over. "It's not like you eat much anyways," Carl said, nodding to Jim's pisspoor excuse for a plate. It was then that the events of last night suddenly came back to Jim.

* * *

><p><em>"First place." Jim held his key still at the voice behind the door. "I have two tomorrow. The two hundred free and the four hundred medley relay...Yes...I mean, yes sir. I-no..I-I will."<em>

_Was that really Carl Powers? He sounded completely different from the brute he presented himself as during the day. Jim got closer to the door, leaning with his ear forward. He heard a continuous bellowing on the other end of the line broken only by a sigh from the one in the room. An uncomfortable silence emanated from inside, prompting Jim to be even more wary of any sounds he might make. But just then, the voice on the other end returned with a pitch even higher than before._

_"I-I'm sorry! I didn't mean to! I...I apologize, sir. Yes...yes, I promise." Jim heard the delayed slam of the phone followed by the click of the lamp on the bedside table. After yet another unbearable silence, Jim debated whether to open the door or to return to the lobby. However, he remembered the grandfather clock had been reaching to midnight. Well, how could his situation get any worse, he thought to himself._

_And just as he opened the door, the light from the lamp illuminated the room. Carl dropped his hand from the switch without changing his surprised, yet defensive, glare at Jim. Without a word, he reached for the lid of his eczema cream to replace on the jar and quickly went to bed, facing his own wall. All the while, Jim had stood idle at the doorway, wishing he had chosen his second option instead._

* * *

><p>"What?" demanded Carl. Jim's eyes panned away expressionless, and he walked toward the farthest table.<p>

"Why was he eyeing you like that?" asked Harold behind him.

"'Cause he's weird, that's why!" interrupted Barry. "Right, Carl?"

Carl narrowed his eyes at Jim's shrinking back. "Yeah..."

* * *

><p>Jim glanced out the window of the parlor, preferring to stare at the taxis and gray clouds above rather than all the people behind him. He was finally about to enjoy his breakfast when a shadow came across his sight and blocked his once-relaxing view.<p>

"Morning, James!"

Jim sat still for a moment, letting a pall of shock drape over his face. "H-How many times have I said already it's Jim?" he said with increasing volume. "Only...my father calls me that."

"Yeah, so...doesn't that mean you like that name?" shrugged John.

"What?" Jim said, blinking back. He heard someone clear their throat and then became aware of all the looks stabbing at his back. "N-Nevermind! Just sit down already," he added desperately.

John slid into the chair in front of the window, presenting his plate that appeared to sample everything available. "So," he began, cutting at the sausage. "How was your morning?"

Jim stopped twiddling his fork in his hand, but his look of skepticism remained. "Fine, thanks." He found it hard to believe that someone could eat so freely in the presence of a complete stranger. "Look, I don't want to sound too forward, but why aren't you sitting with your team?"

"Why aren't you sitting with yours?"

Jim felt his jaw drop, but he regained his composure quickly and cleared his throat. "We're not exactly friends."

"Mm, same," John said, motioning to Jim with his fork. "Most of the other blokes are in a different class, so I don't know them too well."

Jim glanced toward the red jackets of King Edward's and noted that the other boys looked like copies of Carl Powers. "What year are you?"

"Year seven. You?"

"Last year of middle school."

"Middle school? So you're thirteen then." Jim nodded his response. "That's too bad."

"Why?"

"We can't compete in the same events."

Jim raised an eyebrow at this. _And why would we?_ "Well, the fifty meters was my only event."

"No way!"

_Ah, please change the subject!_ "Did you come down from Chelmsford?" Jim added quickly. _Of course he did_, he thought. He had already identified John's emblem with the King Edward's in that city from their meeting last evening.

"Yeah," said John eagerly. "And you?"

"Brighton."

John broke into a wider smile. "I just went there this past summer! Perfect weather for the beach."

_The beach, huh? Figured._ However, the silence afterwards reminded Jim to brush up on his small talk. But, "charming" had never been the word to describe him.

"Have you seen 'Batman'?"

_Seen who? No, wait._ Jim remembered seeing a black and gold quad poster on his drive home from school recently. "I haven't been to the cinema lately." In fact, the last time was months ago with his father. They had watched 'The Accidental Tourist' after his trip abroad to Westport.

"Batman's remarkable. He's my favorite superhero." John looked up and saw Jim deep in thought, picking at his plate of eggs, potatoes, and strawberries, making sure to portion every bite so far. He had the three small piles spread equidistant from each other and made sure that none had touched or overlapped.

"Here." John tipped his plate above Jim's and pushed a couple strips of bacon onto his once-pristine formation. "You look starved."

Jim snapped out of his thoughts and looked from his plate to John in horror. "Did you live in America or something?"

"I did, actually. For a couple years." John had put down his plate to finish up the remainder of his pancakes. "Yeah, my dad had work there in Washington. I liked it; Harry didn't though." He lowered his fork and knife and turned his head slightly to the side in thought. "You know, that reminds me. You knew Harry was my sister even though I only mentioned her once before."

Jim raised his eyes. "Actually, I thought she was your brother."

"That makes more sense in reality," John laughed.

Jim read his expectant expression as wanting to know more about his methods, but never before had Jim needed to explain something he couldn't even give a name to. "I don't know..."

"Go on. It was something you figured out right?"

Jim hesitated, but eventually looked down to John's wrist. "Your watch. It's a boys' model but it's all scratched up along the glass and strap. I know it's not yours because I can still see your tan line from your pervious watch, so this is most likely a hand-me-down from an older brother. I was thinking of the reasons you would change it, but your tan told me it was most likely water damage...from a beach."

For once, John was the silent one. "Yeah...I...I accidentally ran into the water with it on. Now just a minute. Are you saying you knew I went to the beach when you first met me?"

"Your sister's watch told me."

John leant back on his seat and placed his palms in his lap. "Amazing."

"I still got some things wrong," Jim said warily.

"You were accurate with the important things," John beamed. "That's great. Remarkable, honestly."

Jim looked down and finally started to pick at his bacon. _Wasn't that the same word he used to describe that superhero of his?_

* * *

><p>Both schools had decided to leave the hotel together, much to Ms. Friedman's chagrin. Now, she was obligated to make conversation with their coach at the rear of both teams. Jim noted her effort to sound civil, but her "nicer" tone was still as painful to bear as any other day.<p>

"So are you really sure you're not doing any more events?" asked John, as they entered the building.

"Yes, I'm sure," Jim sighed. "Besides the fifty meters was barely enough to handle."

"Hmm..." John remained in thought as they climbed the stairs to the balcony. "Well, guess we'll be sitting there then," he added as the teams pulled apart. "See you later, James."

"Are you serious?" Jim snapped around, but he had already lost John in the sea of red. "Oh, nevermind."

* * *

><p>"Alright, we're starting early today boys. First up is the two hundred meter freestyle with Carl and..." Friedman said, squinting at her clipboard. "Daryl, you too."<p>

"Um, I won't be competing in this one, Ms. Friedman."

She placed her arms on her hips and tucked in her chin to look more stern. "And why ever not?"

"I, erm, I feel that I have to save my energy for the four hundred medley later on."

Friedman glanced down at her list once again and raised an eyebrow when she reached the bottom. It was as if she was considering the weight of the consequences presented. "Alright, Daryl," she added musingly. "Just rest."

Jim stared at Daryl, noting how different he seemed from earlier this morning. He remained quiet with his head low and his fingers gripped onto the edge of the bench. Carl, too, had his attention focused on him as if monitoring his every word and action.

And as expected, Carl won the two hundred meters easily with no close second behind him. He returned to the balcony, basking in the cheers of his teammates until he came across Daryl, who had barely moved throughout the entirety of the event. Daryl craned his head up at Carl with a tight smile. "Congratulations..." he said, his voice cracking briefly.

Carl directed his gaze from Daryl to a distance behind him. His compromised expression even prompted Jim, who sat a few spaces away, to lean forward. "...Thanks," he said with his voice low.

The last and most awaited event for today was the four hundred medley relay featuring their school's champion team. Carl, Harold, Barry, and Daryl lined up before block four, doing their final stretches before the call of the whistle. From the balcony, Jim looked down at lane three, eyeing the red caps of John's school. In fact, he had not seen his name on the scoreboard at all that day. Then again, he had never bothered to ask him if he was even swimming any of the events. He really needed to brush up on his small talk.

"Swimmers on your marks!" _Beep._

Daryl launched off the wall in his backstroke and had quickly taken the lead. With his strong back and arms, it was no wonder he had nearly beaten Carl in freestyle the day before. He still maintained first place when he passed on the baton to Harold, who jumped into the water into a dolphin kick. After resurfacing, he displayed his trademark breaststroke emphasizing his toned limbs. Jim understood too well the receiving end of his muscular arms, knowing the degree of bruises they could leave. Barry's butterfly exacerbated his discomfort and Jim winced with every hook into the water. And finally, the beast, itself, was unleashed. Carl Powers ripped through the water with concise precision, and rather than tire on his lap back, he simply increased speed. It had been no competition from the start.

After a few minutes, the times were listed to make the victory official.

D. EVANS - 1:14.68

H. VERNE - 1:27.59

B. THURSTON - 1:16.37

C. POWERS - 1:01.19

However, Jim made a double take when he found the fourth swimmer for King Edward's.

J. WATSON - 1:03.15

Carl had still been drying himself off when he noticed his concerned look. "What you looking at?" However, when he followed Jim's eyes, he also grew to share his expression.

"Carl, what's the matter?" asked Harold behind him.

Jim turned to Carl observantly. He already knew what he must feel; he simply just wanted to see the emotions manifest on his face.

"Nothing," he said through his teeth. He had hung his towel at his side in his balled fist, and the color had run from his face. However, what Jim did not expect was the gleam in Carl Powers' eyes—the slight upturn of his mouth. It was as if there was no stopping him now, but Jim had not yet known from what.

* * *

><p>"Carl, come on," pleaded Barry on the walk back. "Why are you so upset? We won didn't we?"<p>

"Shut up!" Carl bellowed, essentially garnering looks from the street. He cursed and kicked over a nearby trash recepticle, forcing the rest of the team to come to a halt.

"Now Carl! Please behave yourself. You're making a poor example for the school," scolded Friedman while giving coaxing looks to the bystanders. "You should be quieter like Jim here. Even when he speaks, I can barely hear him."

Carl narrowed his eyes and pointed them at Jim, who mentally cursed. There it was; there was that rage that had been missing from Carl's crazed look on the balcony. And now, thanks to Friedman, Jim had just been put on his radar.

* * *

><p>It was a good thing that Jim had no more events for the remainder of the tournament. That meant he was safe from Carl for as long as they were in London. The only worry was what would await for him at school, but then again, that would not be anything new. Still, he didn't trust to leave his belongings in their room; so, there he stood in the buffet line as the only student equipt with his sports bag.<p>

"James!"

Jim sighed. He didn't even have to look up anymore. "Did you enjoy today?" asked John, lining up right behind him.

Jim reached for a slice of roast beef while eyeing him from the side. "I didn't know you were fast."

"Huh? Well, it's not like I'm trying to stick out or anything," John said in modest. "Swimming's just for fun."

Jim narrowed his eyes. No, he didn't understand. He didn't know he could potentially be on a watch list. And that carefree attitude could only get him into more trouble. But why should he, himself, care? He had only met him yesterday; it's not like they were friends or anything.

Jim turned for the seating area, but he paused as he surveyed the room. There was something wrong here.

At once, Jim strode to where the upperclassmen sat. "Cole, have you seen Carl? Or Harold, Barry...and Daryl?" he said in a hurry.

"Uh, no, but Daryl's in the room," Cole said, surprised Jim said a word at all. "Think he's ill or something."

"What room?"

"Er...110. Why?"

John had just caught up from behind. "James, what's wrong?"

"John." Jim looked him in the eye and handed him his plate. He then walked past him without another word.

* * *

><p>"Daryl, are you in? Where's Carl?" When there was no response, Jim proceeded to pound on the door. "Daryl!"<p>

He heard the squeak of the bed springs inside before the door finally clicked open. "Jim, it's you," sniffled Daryl. His eyes were red, and he was busy stuffing a tissue in his pocket.

"Where is he?"

Daryl grew startled from the urgency of the command. "I-I'm not sure. I think he mentioned leaving something at the pool."

Jim backed away from the doorway, prompting a questioning gaze from Daryl. But before the latter could respond, Jim sped down the hall and through the lobby.

_No!_ He ran as fast as he could despite the cold wind piercing through his t-shirt. _He wouldn't!_

* * *

><p>"I knew he'd show up," said Harold. Jim had just bound through the metal door to see the trio standing at the edge of the pool.<p>

"That idiot, Daryl, will let anything spill," laughed Barry.

"Where is it?" Jim commanded.

"Where is what?" Carl gave each word it's own emphasis in mocking. But he knew exactly what Jim was speaking of. Before finding Daryl, Jim had rushed from the parlor to his room and immediately dove for his swim jacket which had been carelessly left hanging on his bed frame. He froze with horror when he found that the right pocket had been emptied.

Jim walked forward when he saw Carl nod his head toward the pool. There, at the bottom lie his asthma inhaler.

"Watcha gonna do, Jim? Last time I checked, you weren't very good at swimming were you?" Jim couldn't jump in, but he remembered sneaking past the caretaker on the way. Abruptly, he spun around and headed for the exit. He had to hurry before—

Jim felt both his arms and shoulders be restrained as he was dragged back toward the pool. He feared the moment the ground would give way under his feet to be replaced with a pit of water. But before he could even prepare himself, his head had already been shoved underneath the surface.

"Hah! Look at 'im!" Jim was pulled back briefly by both his arms while the chlorine remained to burn at his eyes.

"Hold him steady now." Blinded, the next thing he felt was a weight press down on his head—a certain limited edition, size 11 weight. Jim struggled in gathering air before he was pushed down once again. He couldn't see, he couldn't hear, and there was no warmth to be found. It was cold, dark, and silent.

_Father..._

At once, Jim felt the weight on his head and the restraints on his arms disappear. However, there was nothing to hold him up, and this feeling of suffocation became too much to bear. But unlike his dream, Jim decided to try the second option. So, he let everything go and waited to reach the bottom. At least there he would feel the ground beneath his feet again.

But at that moment, Jim felt a hand grab onto his and pull him up through the surface. "James, are you alright?" he heard someone yell. "Just grab on to this."

_James?_ The only person who called him that was his father. His hands were guided to grip the edge of the wall, and afterwards, he heard a loud splash beside him. For a while the only sound that echoed was his own gasping, but then the water tore apart once again and he was pulled up onto the edge.

"James, are you alright?" He felt his shoulders in a firm hold. Jim blinked out the final dregs of chlorine, and a face came into focus.

"John?" For a moment, all he could do was stare straight forward, wondering if he had actually died. But the pain on his head told him otherwise.

Jim looked around frantically for any other signs of life. "It's alright. They're gone."

"What...happened?" he said between breaths.

"Told them my coach was on the way."

Jim looked down at John's swollen hands and knew that wasn't the whole story. "You lied?"

"It's something I can do, James," he laughed.

"It's just that...you're so honest with everything," scoffed Jim.

"Here, hope it's not damaged." John presented the inhaler in his hand, and Jim stared down at the thing before reaching for it.

The pair caught their breaths while looking out over the luminous light blue. "Well, that was fun," said John. "See? We did get to swim together."

Jim had not remembered the last time he laughed so hard.

* * *

><p><strong>Jim's model of Sony's Discman is the D-250 and his 1989 Bach album is 'Bach Favorites' composed by Eugene Ormandy and the Philadelphia Orchestra. <strong>

**John went to King Edward VI Grammar School, Chelmsford as stated on his resumé in 'The Blind Banker'.**

**Swimming times were based on the age group time standards from the USA swimming website.**

**_Batman_(1989) was directed by Tim Burton and _The Accidental Tourist_(1988) was directed by Lawrence Kasdan.**


	3. Bist du bei mir

.

* * *

><p><strong>Off the Deep End<strong>

_Chapter 3_

Bist du bei mir

* * *

><p>"Both rugby and swimming?" asked Jim incredulously.<p>

John smirked, busy chewing at a Belgian waffle. "Mm, it's quite fun. You should try it some time."

_How does he manage?_ "You're mad," laughed Jim, shaking his head. His smile faltered when he caught sight of Harold's split lip and Barry's black eye. They sat at the far end of the parlor and had been staring at them both since the start of breakfast. Friedman had caught them earlier that morning.

* * *

><p><em>"What happened to your faces?" she cried with increasing urgency. Jim was just about to leave his room when he saw the three of them in the hallway.<em>

_Barry and Harold exchanged glances but said nothing. Jim backed into the room and observed though the crack in the door. He knew they wouldn't say anything; if they did, they would have had to explain the incident at the pool. Meanwhile Carl, who had gotten away unscathed judging from his brief appearance this morning, had dropped all the blame on them. Jim was grateful Carl was already in bed when he returned last night and had left almost as soon as he awoke today. He would not have known what would have happened had they been forced to look at each other face to face._

_"You two were scuffling again, weren't you? And now, you let it out on each other!" She could barely restrain her shrieking; it was a relief only their school seemed to occupy the ground floor. With still no response, she guided the boys to the courtesy telephone at the nearby table. "You know what we have to do now right? You both need to phone your families and tell them we're going to have a talk with them about your behavior when we return to school."_

_"But, Ms. Friedman," pleaded Harold._

_"No whining, Harold. First, Carl's acting up, and now you?" she scolded, pressing at her temple. "What will your sister have to say about all this?"_

_Harold fell silent at that. He dialed the phone and waited for the line to pick up. "Uh, hello sis? Yeah, it's me...Sorry to bother you when you're at work. Huh? No, I'm fine...I-I'm fine, trust me. I got...into a little trouble here with the teacher...I...hit someone." Harold fidgeted with the phone cord for a moment before handing the phone to Friedman._

_"Hello, Karen? Yes, I'm sorry to interrupt your business...But just a moment. I thought you were away at uni...Oh...Oh, I see..." Her voice fell. "Well, it's about your brother's conduct..."_

_Harold sunk in the nearby chair mortified and could barely raise his head throughout the entire conversation. Up next, Barry received the phone and waited for his torment to pass as well._

_"Is that you, Toby? Yeah, yeah...It's me...Yeah, I'm in London...Of course your big brother came in first," he tried forcing a laugh. "I won't let you down...I promise. Now be good, and can you hand over the phone to mummy?" He handed the phone to Friedman, who recited the same spiel._

_When she was done, she hung up the phone and looked at the pair. "Okay boys," she said drained. "Let's get some breakfast, shall we?"_

* * *

><p>Jim turned back around and looked at John's scabbed knuckles. He would not have expected that from him in the least. Jim looked up to catch his attention, but restrained himself when he saw his face.<p>

John had been looking back at that far table with the most peculiar gleam in his eyes. He was stoic on the surface, but inside was an unrestrained emotion that Jim could not decipher. It resembled—dare he thought it—the same look Carl Powers had worn yesterday.

"J-John..."

"They won't bother you anymore," he stated evenly without redirecting his gaze.

"What?"

At once, John blinked and looked back at Jim. "Sorry," he said, putting on a smile. "You ready to go?"

* * *

><p>John stood up from the bleachers and proceeded to remove his swim jacket. "You're doing the four hundred free, too?" inquired Jim, glancing up.<p>

"Too?" John followed Jim's line of sight to the boy he ran into at the pool last night. "What's his name?"

"Don't bother," mumbled Jim dimly. "He's not worth remembering."

Down at the pool, John finished his stretches with his other teammates beside the team from Jim's school. He recognized all but one of them, and the ones he knew had been giving him looks since they were back at the hotel. They didn't scare him though, and they certainly wouldn't impede his progress in the four hundred free.

When the whistle blew, Jim kept his intent gaze between Carl and John's teams. Harold, Barry, and Daryl had managed to keep a constant shorter time of about a couple seconds ahead, but by the time John had entered the water the gap had widened. It was impressive, however; and for the lap back to the starting block, the cheers roared throughout the area. John had not slackened in his pace and had managed to pick up speed at the end. He had cut through the water with grace and precision, no doubt given by his natural athletic talent.

Still, the end result was as expected, and only then did Jim release his grip on the railing and sighed with relief. It would have been far worse had it ended any other way. He was just about to return to the bleachers when the times listed pulled him back to the rails.

* * *

><p>H. VERNE - 1:08.10<p>

B. THURSTON - 1:07.49

D. EVANS - 1:04.51

C. POWERS - 1:00.00

* * *

><p>I. SMITH - 1:10.22<p>

A. JONES - 1:09.18

B. BROOKS - 1:05.29

J. WATSON - 0:59.99

* * *

><p>Jim felt the color rush from his face and immediately, he scoured the floor for John. When he failed to locate him, he made for the stairwell.<p>

"Jim?" called Friedman. "Now, just hold on a minute!"

He ignored her command and shoved his way to the bottom only to stop when he caught sight of Carl's back. He was standing still and looking down as if speaking to someone, and the moment he turned to walk away, he saw John not quite focusing on anything. Jim felt Carl's eyes on him as he walked past, but that did not hinder him from rushing to where John stood.

"John," he stammered hurriedly. "What did he say?"

John snapped out of his trance and looked to the voice. "James?" He said nothing for a moment and continued to stare straight back at him. "I just congratulated him. It was a good run," he said with a nod.

Jim eyed him warily. "But—"

"Now, why're you here?" interjected John curiously, swinging his towel over his shoulders.

"I..." Jim blinked back and looked at the clock on the far wall. "I have an event coming up."

"An event? You mean right now?" asked John, pointing to the ground. "I thought you didn't have any more."

"Well," professed Jim, removing his jacket. "I arranged something. Figured you wouldn't let me hear the end of it."

"What are you gonna do?"

Jim handed over his swim jacket. "You'll just have to be surprised."

* * *

><p>"Daniell Street Comprehensive. James Moriarty. Five meter. 101A, forward straight dive..." Jim zoned out the announcer's voice as he climbed the ladder. When he got to the top, it was deathly quiet as all eyes were now on him. It especially didn't help that he was now at the same level as the people on the balcony.<p>

What had possessed him to do something like this, he still did not know. Before finding John at breakfast, he simply went up to Friedman and requested another event. He pleaded his case and even told her the coach would vouch for him. Jim figured it was due to all the vigor he had this morning; he didn't wake up suffocating after all.

So there he stood at the base of the board, gripping tightly onto the metal railings. He only had one shot at this; and the moment he stepped forward, there would be no turning back. And, there was no time to think about what would happen if he blundered either. What did he have to lose anyway?

Jim gave one final exhale before marching briskly to the end. He hopped once and swung his arms up for momentum; then, when his feet met the board a second time, he took a deeper stance and sprang forward. He held his breath and raised his arms again except now, they were aiming toward a different direction. The expanse below took up his vision before he was consumed.

When Jim opened his eyes, he saw the light from above illuminating the vibrant blue. Everything was still, and the gurgling of the water droned out to silence. An odd sense of peace overcame Jim, and there was a part of him—a part that he never realized before—that wanted to remain. The light was getting farther; but after the initial panic on the surface, he found that sinking made him feel more alive than in any other time in his life.

Suddenly, his chest felt tight and his shoulders jolted harshly, causing him to release the last breath of air in his lungs. Jim snapped out of his reverie, and his eyes darted in all directions. No! What was he doing? He pushed with his numb arms and legs against the weight of the water, scraping for the light above. He was close; he could feel it. He needed to get back to where he belonged.

There was something to lose after all. And he had just finally found it.

Jim stole a harsh gasp of air when he broke through, and he could not concentrate on anything until he managed to grab hold of the edge. When he finally caught his breath, he turned his head at the alarmingly long silence behind him. What he saw next was enough to make him lose his breath entirely.

The whole balcony railing was filled with people looming to see what had happened. There were no spaces in between to the point that people had to peer between each other's heads. Even the staff on the ground floor had stood dumbfounded. But all at once, a booming applause filled the room, causing Jim to shrink back into the water from surprise.

He removed his goggles, and who he saw out on the opposite end of the pool was John. He had his swim jacket off and was standing at the edge in a ready position, but he relaxed as the cheering continued. He walked around the corners of the pool and leant over to Jim.

"John," he called in disbelief. "How was it?"

"Well," he replied, offering his hand. "I _was_ surprised."

* * *

><p>"It's this one. This one right here," affirmed John, looking up from the Discman in his lap.<p>

"This one is your favorite?" Jim gave a sidelong glance to the other Queen Anne recliner beside him. John put it down on the coffee table between them and turned up the volume to its highest so that the sound emanated from the headphones throughout the lobby.

"Mm," nodded John, reclining back. "The best one on the whole album."

"No, it's not. You just haven't listened carefully," chided Jim. "I'll let you borrow it sometime."

John sighed a laugh. Did he not realize most of the world still used cassettes? "Yeah, you gonna let me borrow your player, too?" he added with a hint of sarcasm.

"Yeah."

John looked back at Jim, but his smile faltered when he saw his seriousness. Was that a promise to meet again? He looked thoughtfully to the side and spread his hands on the armrests. "James, why did you decide to do swimming anyway? The blokes on your team don't seem that fun to be around."

Jim was caught of guard by the question and looked to his lap. "I just wanted to. No reason." However, he was prompted to continue when he saw John's look of skepticism. "See, my father took me to the Olympics one time."

"The one in Korea?"

"No, the one before that in Los Angeles. He, uh, took me to see swimming, and we sat right at the front. I remember right when they would jump in, the crowd got so loud, but I figured that underneath the water they couldn't hear a thing. They just focused on what they needed to do, and the world around them just faded. They looked so free."

John broke into a smile, one from just the joy of hearing Jim talk about something he loved. "My father and I haven't really gone to do something like that in a while though. He's too busy with work," Jim added wistfully.

"Same with my dad," said John, following Jim's silence. "Harry couldn't stand being away any longer, so he sent us back to live with relatives of my mum." He stared out at the rain through the foggy window. "I still miss him though." Jim followed his gaze and immersed himself in the sound of the pattering against the glass.

"So seriously," broke in John, clearing his throat. "Are you going to see 'Batman'?"

"I still don't get what's the big deal about him," chuckled Jim.

"Hm, well it's his fighting style I guess."

"I don't get what you mean."

"Well, he's only human but he fights as well as any of the other superheroes with powers. Oh, and the thing is," he added, leaning forward. "He never kills anybody. He only captures the bad guys and leaves them for the police."

"So is that what you want to do when you grow up? Fight crime and such?"

"Yeah," admitted John. "I think so."

"I can't imagine you killing anyone."

"I can say the same for you, James."

Jim looked to him inquisitively to which John looked down at his watch. "Ah, hm, it's getting late. I'm gonna have to go up now."

John and Jim parted ways at the lift. "Well, good night. See you tomorrow."

"Yeah." Jim walked down the hall and took out his key. He noticed that John still kept his eyes on him as he walked into the room.

* * *

><p>Jim lay on his bed, listening through his album for the second time. He was stuck on 'Bist du bei mir' when he turned his head to the side to the empty bed, which seemed to have remained untouched since this morning. Not that he was complaining in the least though.<p>

He couldn't help, however, the sinking feeling in his stomach. The Discman on his chest felt heavy and his asthma inhaler at his side pricked at his attention. Jim found that, suddenly, everything that reminded him of John stood out. And...did he remember ever hearing the door of the lift slam shut?

Jim sat up with a snap. He raised his shaking hand up to his face and brought out a shuddered breath through his fingers. He felt sick, but he couldn't pinpoint the reason. There _was_ something wrong.

* * *

><p>Through the cold and silent corridors of the building, Jim tiptoed past the caretaker, making sure to prevent any squeaking from his shoes. He had been soaked to the bone even with his swim jacket on, but it was his racing heart that had kept him going. <em>If he's not here then it's fine<em>, he assured himself.

But just then, Jim saw the door of the pool open slowly ahead of him, and out ran two silhouettes down a different corridor. He stood paralyzed for a moment but broke into a sprint when he got back the feeling in his legs. In the luminous glow of the pool, he immediately noticed the fresh puddles at the side. Then, he saw it. There at the bottom, was a blur of red at the opposite end.

Weighing nothing in his mind, whether the consequences or his own skill, Jim dove off the edge into the freezing water. He had already swallowed enough chlorine to make him ill but that would not stop him from reaching the floor where John remained still and suspended. Wrapping an arm underneath his shoulders, Jim propelled John and himself for the surface with just the strength of one arm. Never before had he thought himself capable of that, let alone in the water. Breaking through, he grabbed at the edge and caught his breath.

"John!" He coughed. "John, come on!" He had begun to shake at him harshly, but no matter the strength of his actions or the volume of his cries, the head of the one before him did not rise.

* * *

><p><strong>Daniell Street Comprehensive was Carl Powers' school according to 'Sherlock: The Casebook'.<strong>


	4. Toccata & Fugue

**Thank you very much for the reviews! This chapter is based on events in the 'The Great Game'. I recommend rewatching if it's been a while!**

* * *

><p><strong>Off the Deep End<strong>

_Chapter 4_

Toccata & Fugue

* * *

><p><em>Hello?<em>

_This one...is a bit...defective. Sorry. She's blind. This is...a funny one._

* * *

><p><em>Drip. Drip.<em>

Jim sat alone in the dim corridor of St. Bartholomew's Hospital, hearing only the drops of water from his clothes onto the floor. His head and arms hanged limply as if he were letting himself dry against the chair, which had been the only thing keeping him from falling over.

All his energy had been drained within the past half hour. His voice had nearly gone by the time the caretaker had arrived to pull them out of the pool, and he blindly followed him along as he had led to the hospital with John in his arms. He had not regained consciousness since.

Suddenly, the voices around the corner piqued Jim's attention.

"Patient's still not awake, but he's stable. It's a miracle; any moment longer and we could have lost him. Still, there's another thing—large contusion over his left temple."

"From what?"

"Blunt force trauma, I suppose. Still can't say if this was accidental."

"Why don't we ask the boy that came in with him?"

"You will do no such thing!" broke in a voice with a prominent accent.

"I beg your pardon, ma'am, but—"

"You have no right to question him. Now tell me where he is this instant!"

"Please keep your voice down. We are in a hospital. He's just over there."

Jim heard the sharp click of heels get louder behind him, and there in his periphery, stood Ms. Friedman with her arms akimbo. He couldn't care; nor did he care about the lecture she tried to drill into his ears on the walk back to the hotel.

"You're lucky the caretaker found me first. There was absolutely no reason for you to even be there. Do you know how much trouble you put our school in?" she shrieked as they entered the lobby. To Jim's surprise, his teammates were already huddled on one of the furniture sets. A loud yawn got his attention, and to his side he saw Harold and Barry in their pajamas, nodding off. "Jim, sit," Friedman commanded, but looking at him from head to toe, she held him back. "No, no, no. That won't do. Go and have a change." As Jim walked past the couch, he noticed that Daryl sat staring off into nothing, gripping at the chest of his swim jacket.

Upon turning into the hallway, he saw Carl Powers in fresh clothes walking toward him, drying his hair with a towel. Carl stopped in his tracks and froze his action while his mouth opened and closed as if to say something.

Jim forced himself to keep walking; there was no point in stopping now. Even though his legs felt numb and his chest was getting tight, he passed by the faint smell of chlorine without sparing a glance.

When he came back to the lobby, Friedman was just about finishing the meeting. "So, I don't want you to be alarmed. I just wanted to make sure we were all here accounted for," she added, looking to Jim. "Alright. You may all go, but _don't_ leave your rooms."

Jim waited for Friedman and all the boys to disperse until only Daryl remained. He was still living in a trance such that it took him a few seconds to get off the couch. As he turned around the armrest, Daryl barely had the time to react when he saw Jim reach up to grab his collar and shove him against the wall.

"J-Jim—?"

"Where were you?" he hissed.

"Wha...What do you mean? I have no idea what you're talking about!"

"Earlier at the pool! Were you with Carl?" The sick feeling in Jim's stomach exacerbated to the point of wanting to vomit. Everything, all the clues, were just blatantly staring him in the face but he was too afraid to put them together.

"I don't know," whimpered Daryl. Any second, he was going to burst into tears. Jim glared into his eyes with increasing rage; his knuckles were turning white. But just then, a curious black thread caught his eye. "Wait! What are you doing?"

Upon unzipping the jacket, Jim saw that hanging around Daryl's neck was a stopwatch. "What is...this for?" he asked, eyes darting back to his. "Tell me now!"

"Carl, he—" Daryl choked through escaped tears. "He, uh, wanted me to...time them both. Him and...the boy from King Edward's."

"Why?" Jim pounced.

"T-To see who was faster. Carl challenged him, and..." he gulped. "And when _he_ won...Carl got angry, and then—"

"Enough." Jim was looking down at the floor now but still held Daryl firm against the wall. He didn't want to hear anymore. He should have seen this coming, and the awful thing was that he already knew. From the time he said goodbye to John in the hallway—no, even before then—when he saw Carl talking to John after the four hundred free. "You...you have to help me, Daryl."

"Huh?"

"You saw what happened," Jim urged, looking up. "You can testify against Carl; you know what's right!"

"B-But..."

"Don't you want to get back at Carl for all he's done to you? He made you drop out of that event you would have won, right?"

Daryl stood petrified at that; he never would have guessed someone would figure out his real reason for quitting. "I..." He weighed the options in his head, but he felt safe where he was right now. For Daryl, he could not imagine any improvement in the situation he found himself in. It was truly terrifying...getting accustomed to things.

"No, I won't do it," he said quietly. "You can't make me." He stared back at Jim for the first time and pushed his arms off him. Daryl moved past Jim, but before he disappeared down the hallway he added, "And if you mention this again...I'll deny it. I'm sorry."

_'Sorry?'_ Jim leant with his arm propped against the wall. What did that word even mean?

* * *

><p><strong>London, 2009<strong>

After yet another busy day at work, Mr. Evans sat on his couch following up to the dozens of demanding emails that had been left behind by his bosses. Sighing, he opened another one and scanned through the colorful language directed at him. He leant back on the cushions exhausted and saw his wife removing a kettle from the stove.

"Uh, Darling, isn't Stanley supposed to be home by now?"

"You don't remember?" she said with her back still to him. "He's staying over at his friend's today."

"Oh. I see..."

Mr. Evans hunched forward to his laptop when a ring alerted him to a new mail.

[HEY THERE:)]

He furrowed his brows at the subject line and proceeded to delete it. However, another ring escaped shortly after.

[CLICK ME!]

Delete.

[CLICK ME PLEASE!]

Delete again.

[COME ON! YOU KNOW YOU WANT TO;D]

Mr. Evans pinched at the space between his eyes, pressing the mouse much harder than he intended. What was going on with this series of junk mail? He was just about to erase the next one out of habit, when the subject made him hitch his breath.

[BUT WHAT ABOUT LITTLE STANLEY?]

Was this a joke? He looked at the sender but found the space was full of characters he could not recognize. Mr. Evans hovered over the open button and finally gave in to the temptation. What was the worst that could happen? A computer virus?

Mrs. Evans lifted the heavy tray in her hands and turned toward the table where her husband sat. He had been unusually quiet for the past minute, rather than giving his occasional sigh. However, she was caught off-guard as she saw the color drain from his face.

"Dear, what's wrong? Did you read something bad on the news again? I told you to stop looking at—" What she saw on the screen caused a shiver to run through her body, causing her to drop all the tea on the floor.

Stanley Evans sat strapped to a curious-looking vest of lights, wires, and rows of what could only be explosives. He was looking down through tear-stained eyes at a mobile phone that he held in his small hands.

"Stanley!" Mrs. Evans shrieked. She stepped over the bits of broken porcelain without a care and reached for the phone on the table side.

"I..." broke in Stanley's voice through the speakers. "I wouldn't do that...if I were you..."

"Stanley, what are you saying? Are you alright? Stanley!"

Suddenly, Mr. Evans saw a small red light reflect on the screen through the curtains; and when he looked behind him, he found that its target was the back of Mrs. Evans' head. He slowly reached for her hand, so as to not alarm her, and guided her to sit down next to him. "Let's just listen to what they have to say," he whispered against her ear.

"He can't h-hear you..." whimpered Stanley, reading the text on the phone. "Only I can talk to him..."

"Who are you?" Mr. Evans sat up straight and looked into the webcam. "What do you want with our son?"

"I don't want anything. Rather...I want to give something to you."

"What?"

"...Hopelessness."

Mrs. Evans let out a wail. This was no ordinary kidnapper; this one was deranged. And on top of it all, they made their son echo his disgusting words. Still, Mr. Evans knew that he needed to do everything possible to buy time.

"If it's money, we can provide," He held his wife close and eyed the red light still aiming for her. "We'll manage...whatever price."

"All I want is your undivided...attention. You see...I'm betting against a certain...d-detective, and if he wins...Stanley gets to go home...But...if he loses, you'll watch him go...b-boom."

"You monster!" Mrs. Evans spat at the screen. "Stanley, tell us where you are," she sobbed.

"I'm serious...One more move...and little Stanley...won't have anyone waiting for him at home...Now sit tight...You're just in time for the show."

Mr. and Mrs. Evans held their breaths as they watched their son click keys on the phone. It rang until it was answered by a voice they could not recognize.

"The painting is a fake."

Stanley said nothing and stared at the phone silently, awaiting the next text message with instructions. He was confused at the lines he was given, but he knew that he couldn't afford to say something out of place.

"It's a fake," the voice continued. "That's why Woodbridge and Cairns were killed."

Silence.

"Oh, come on," the man added irritatedly. "Proving it is just the detail. The painting is a fake. I've solved it. I've figured it out. It's a fake! That's the answer. That's why they were killed."

After another silence, he heard the man take a sharp breath. "Okay, I'll prove it. Give me time. Will you give me time?"

Just then, Stanley received a text telling him what to do next. He feared what would happen once he finished his next task.

"Ten..."

"No!" Mrs. Evans jerked out of her husband's hold at the sound of the countdown.

"Nine..."

"We have to do something!" She pleaded into his eyes, which kept switching back from Stanley to the sniper's mark on her head.

"Eight..."

"They won't help him!"

"Seven..."

"He'll die!"

"Six..."

Just then, a red laser danced upon Stanley's vest; and instinctively, Mrs. Evans leapt for the phone once again. However, her husband had predicted her movements and had already shielded her from the bullet that came through the window.

"Five..."

Mrs. Evans lay paralyzed under her husband's immobile weight and felt a steady, warm trickle begin to trail down her neck. "No..."

"Four..."

"Dear?" No sound at all, not even his occasional sigh.

"Three..."

"Daryl! Oh my god! Daryl! Daryl!"

"Two..."

"The Van Buren Supernova!"

Stanley received a final message. This little game was over; he was free. "Please," he begged into the phone. "Is somebody there? Somebody help me!"

He couldn't wait to be home.

* * *

><p>In a quaint café on the other side of town, Jim Moriarty closed his laptop and removed his earbuds. His dark eyes replayed the scene that he had just witnessed; however, behind that gleam was a storm. It was a frustration that could only come about when things did not go as planned. And this had already happened for the second time!<p>

Jim quietly gathered his things, tossed a couple quid onto the table, and strode out swiftly. He got into his Aston Martin parked down the street and tossed his belongings carelessly on the never-used passenger's seat. Racing through narrow stretches and curves with precision, Jim cracked his neck and was beginning to lose focus.

He slammed down on the wheel. "You can't be sorry if you're dead!" he seethed at the windshield.

He reached for the stereo and turned it up to "Toccata & Fugue", just high enough to overcome the screaming in his head. But as the song continued, Jim felt more relaxed as if the melody were taking away his stress. His frown turned upwards and the slight chuckle that started at first grew into a maniacal cackle. "That's it. You're dead! Can't get any more ordinary than that. Oh, I never expected any less from you."

* * *

><p><strong>20 years earlier...<strong>

There was only one last thing he could do. He was desperate now; there was no other way out. Jim gripped against the edge of the wall as he sauntered toward the room at the end of the hall—Friedman's room. If no one else was going to help him reveal the truth, he'd have to take it into his own hands.

He was just about to knock on the door when he heard her voice from the inside.

"Yes, and that's why I made sure to inform their coach _after_ we had come back from the hospital. I just didn't want him to suspect any of my kids had anything to do with it...No, of course the boy's not dead!...I don't know; maybe he just slipped or something...I don't care who did it, Randall! Just make sure my school is not involved. There will be no scandal whatsoever! I expect to see Carl Powers on the front page tomorrow. The one thousand free is the biggest event of the entire meet and no accidents will get in the way of that, I assure you."

Jim dropped his hand and quietly turned for the opposite way. He had been wrong. _This_ was desperation. In that final cry for help, something had broken. Something that had been slowly slipping out from under him had gone in a flash.

He suddenly remembered the feeling of falling from the diving board and plunging in. He had never felt freer. And just like after the dive, the water in his eyes blocked his vision; however, he knew that eventually he would be able to see clearly again.

Jim choked out a stifled laugh. One thing was for certain though.

_Carl Powers is going to be on the front page tomorrow. And someday, you will be too, Ms. Friedman. Oh, **I** assure you._

* * *

><p><em>Help me.<em>

_Tell us where you are. Address!_

_He was so...His voice..._

_No, no, no, no. Tell me nothing about him. Nothing._

_He sounded so...soft._

_Goodbye...Ms. Friedman._

* * *

><p><strong>I imagined Jim's car to be the 1965 Aston Martin DB5...like the one James Bond uses. Silver with a red leather interior, of course.<strong>


	5. Arioso

**Thank you for the amazing reviews! When it came to names, Ms. Friedman got hers by her manner of death. A bit morbid...but the name stuck anyway. I wanted Carl and his friends to have similarities especially Daryl, who will always be just one after Carl.**

* * *

><p><strong>Off the Deep End<strong>

_Chapter 5_

Arioso

* * *

><p>Today was the big day. For Carl Powers, this was the event that he had been waiting for; it was the whole reason he was here. After today, he would finally be recognized by everyone, especially his father.<p>

The one thousand freestyle would prove that not only was he the best in the country for speed but also endurance. However, first place was the only way he could reach that end; anything short of that was failure. He had done by any means to get to where he was, and every step was made with choices that could not allow for regret.

"Carl, have you warmed up fully?" pressed Ms. Friedman inquisitively. She had been more persistent with her questions today beginning with whether he had eaten enough at breakfast to if he had gotten enough sleep after last night's meeting.

He nodded for the umpteenth time, and reached under the bleachers for his trainers. "I just need to go to the locker room."

"Yes, of course," she added anxiously. "Just come back quickly. They're going to announce the names any moment."

Carl descended the balcony but not before glancing to Harold, Barry, and Daryl who put in the effort to avoid his eyes. Harold and Barry had barely said a word to him since the morning after stealing Jim's inhaler. He had thought it was because that boy from King Edward's had given them a fine beating, but they had acted as if something more than their pride was at stake.

And so Daryl had been the only one left to accompany him to the pool last night. But after what had happened, he also avoided speaking to him. Still, it was difficult to blame him, but at least he knew Daryl was too much of a coward to snitch. Honestly, it did not matter to Carl what they thought of him anyway. After his victory, there would be more people who would want to know him. He did not have the time to waste on people who drowned themselves in fear.

Carl carefully arranged his trainers at the base of his locker, having the tips face out in greeting upon his return. Just then, he saw movement from the corner of his eye, prompting him to spin around to face Jim.

"Bloody hell! Who said you could sneak up on me like—"

"It was you."

Carl blinked; it was barely a whisper. "What?"

"At the pool." Jim, who had been staring intently at the ground, finally raised his eyes. "It was you."

After a heavy silence, Carl's face turned solemn and he let out a sigh. "And where's your proof?"

Jim's heart palpitated, his eyes widening in disbelief. The final word sunk in his ears like a ringing that couldn't leave. His unfocused gaze fell on Carl's forearms, which were each streaked with vertical red scratches that had ripped through the skin. They cruelly spiraled repeatedly in desperation until the final attempt left only shallow scabs that had been easily washed away by the chlorine. He wanted to vomit.

"Oh these?" chimed Carl, holding up his hands. "I just scratch a lot, that's all." He turned and grabbed his jar of eczema cream on the shelf, presenting it over his shoulder. "See? I've got my own proof." Carl put down the jar and gripped at the edge of the shelf in support.

He then lowered his voice. "He was asking for it anyway, you know? _He_ would have won today." Carl let his arm drop and his shoulders slouch as if purging himself of every weak emotion before they came to the surface. "Yeah... See?" he added halfheartedly. He turned to Jim again and broke into a trembling smile. "It was _his_ fault."

Jim kept his gaze intent; he refused to believe that it was remorse that had briefly flashed on the face of Carl Powers. He had his chance. He had it; but even then, Jim would not have been the one to give it to him. Yes, he thought, halting his breath. Both Carl and himself had already crossed the point of no return.

Early this morning, Jim sat on the edge of his bed and counted the rises and falls of the lump across from him. And he hated seeing it; he wanted it to stop. With nothing else left to decide, he reached for the jar of eczema cream resting carelessly on the bedside table.

An announcement interrupted his thoughts, prompting Carl to close his locker and speed past Jim.

"You know Carl," Jim called without turning around. "There's something I forgot to tell you."

Carl looked back with tired eyes. "And what's that?"

"I don't have asthma. Never did."

He cocked his head to the side, feeling a slight heaviness in the action. "So what?"

Jim exhaled slowly and let his shoulders relax. "Forget it." He turned and flashed his most genuine smile enough to make his eyes shine. "Good luck today. Do your best."

Carl furrowed his brows, but shook his head and made for the exit. He didn't have time for this. He didn't have time. Now was his moment.

When Jim heard the echo of the metal door, he retrieved his bag and took his place on the bench like he had done on the first day. The solo piece, 'Arioso', guided the swaying of his hand as he closed his eyes. He didn't have to be there; he had timed it perfectly. Right about now, Carl would be pushing though the familiar waters with more exertion than ever before. Was he just tired? But after his first flip-turn, he would be disoriented, and his arms and legs just wouldn't move like how he wanted them to. And then when he had gotten to the center, after realizing he was already in last place, the muscles of his diaphragm would cease, making his lungs take in the water that he had surrounded himself with. Only suffocation awaited as he fell to the dark bottom of the pool. He didn't even have the strength to panic.

Jim removed his headphones, and basked in the silence around him. It was as if all the oxygen had left the building. And at the drop of a beat, hollers and screams took charge from beyond the wall, and he knew it was done. He had always known that between him and Carl, only one of them could breathe freely at a time.

He opened Carl's locker and eyed the blessed trainers—the last things that held a part of his soul in them. _Well, hello again..._

* * *

><p>Jim walked slowly down the hallway and into the small room at the end. He stopped at the doorway and his heart fell at the sight of the beeping monitors, the breathing tubes, the sterile scent. Regardless, he grabbed one of the chairs outside the door, and dragged it close to the bedside. He sat down gingerly, despite the fact that there was no more harm to be done. After a long while of just staring down at his lap, Jim looked up and breathed in shakily.<p>

"I heard that talking helps, but I don't really know what to say." He glanced about the room, staring from the metal cabinets to the curtains around the bed. "I've been thinking lately about that 'Batman' film you've been going on about. Was planning on seeing it when I get back...You know, the last one I saw was when my father returned abroad. It was called 'The Accidental Tourist' and it was about this man who made his living by making travel guides for people who hated to travel. I mean, what kind of job is that? Why would you try to convince people to do things that they'd hate to do anyway?"

"Well, he, uh, ends up losing everything and just when it couldn't get any worse, he meets this woman who turns his whole life around. She's the complete opposite of him, and after going back and forth for a while, he ends up choosing her. I never understood, though, how he could make that choice. How could he just leave behind everything that he has ever known? I think I...almost got it once, but now I can't afford to think like that."

He remembered watching Carl massage his eczema cream into his arms that morning, making sure to go over the open scratches graciously given by John. He could have told Carl to stop; he could have confessed to the botulinum he carried on his person for half a year. Jim reached into his pocket and felt for the inhaler, which was notably lighter in weight. It wasn't real anyway; it was just a container—one he stole from his father when he had last come back from Westport.

Jim flashed his eyes to John's face wrapped in bandages, but he quickly looked away. "I..." he gulped. "I never thanked you for helping me out of the pool on the first day. I never even thanked you for saving me the second time." He laughed bitterly into his hand. "To think, someone like you would even bother. But now you're not..."

Jim covered his eyes with his hands and raggedly sucked in breath, trying to stop the violent shaking of his shoulders. "You never think before you act, do you? And now look at you. Gotten yourself into a coma, heh. You...idiot."

* * *

><p><strong>London, 2009<strong>

John fixed the collar of his army jacket, blocking out the cool evening breeze. At this late hour, there wasn't a sound other than the tapping of his shoes on the pavement and the occasional hum of a car in the distance. A taxi pulled up beside him and rolled down the window.

"Hop in, mate."

"Ah, I'm getting the Tube. But thanks."

John heard an all too familiar click at his side, causing him to stop and turn. "Yeah, that wasn't a question."

The barrel of the gun nudged him toward the back seat, and John sighed as he begrudgingly took a few steps back and took the door handle. However, just as he was about to climb in, he was yanked by the arms harshly and struck on the back of the head before he blacked out.

John jolted awake to the sound of the slam of a metal door. The ringing in his ears as he sat up from the floor made the room he was in appear as if it were spinning. That, and the ubiquitous stench of chlorine. Blinking away the grogginess from his eyes, he looked down to the heavy weight on his chest. "What the—?"

"Like your present?"

John turned his head to the side, but saw nothing other than the rows of lockers in the empty, dark room. He twisted around for the door closest to him, but the ropes binding his hands and feet kept him still. "Where are you?"

"Careful, John," said the voice. "That _is_ a bomb strapped to your chest."

John heard the crackle of static in one ear and realized the earpiece he wore. In fact, a lot had happened since he was out. The flashing lights of the vest peaked out from the thick hooded jacket covering him. He also felt that his mobile and gun had been taken.

"Tell me who I'm speaking to," John demanded quickly.

"Shh, all in time." He heard the amused tone, and imagined his kidnapper grinning.

John exhaled slowly, trying to calm himself. "What is it you want?"

"So bossy," the voice chuckled. "Look at you, acting like a hero. You're different from the others, you know. They cried and screamed, waiting for someone to come and save them...but never you. No wonder why Sherlock keeps you around."

"You're the one, aren't you," interrupted John. "The one who's been tying up all these people. Making me and Sherlock run around to solve your riddles, hm?"

"Yes," he replied enthusiastically. "And have you figured out who I am?"

John was at a loss for words. He knew Sherlock had managed to get the name of the mastermind from Ms. Wenceslas, but he had been busy inspecting the train tracks at Battersea where Adam West's body was found.

"He didn't tell me."

"Oh, poor you."

John had enough. He pushed his weight toward the door, crawling on his side.

"Ooh, I wouldn't do that if I were you," the voice chimed in his ear.

"I'm not gonna lie here and wait for you to do whatever it is you want!" he huffed.

"Mm, even if I decide to end things right here?"

John stopped for a moment, having made his way to just a couple meters from the door. "But, you're in here, too, aren't you?" he snickered. "You'd kill us both."

"Yes..." There was that rise in his voice again. "I would, wouldn't I?"

John's smile faltered. If this person wasn't joking, then neither was he. "Alright then. How bout it?"

"Oh hoh! Wow! You've really changed. Impressive! I suppose all that time in Afghanistan has really paid off."

He cocked his head to the side in confusion. How did he know about his tour? And "changed"?

"But I'm afraid we can't let it end this way, John. You see, we're not the only two players anymore. You're knight in shining armor is on his way right now."

"Sherl—? That's who you're after? Tell me!" he bellowed into the earpiece. "Tell me who you are now!"

At once, a sound click on the other end silenced John. "Hello?"

He then heard the rhythmic clanging of steel through the door on the opposite end of the room. Someone was coming this way, and they were taking their time with every agonizing step. John hurried and pushed along his side with his legs, trying not to rattle the bomb any more than necessary. But when he heard the slam behind him, he froze.

"You want to know so badly?" In person, the voice had such a shrill to it that it sent a chill down John's spine. He was still too paralyzed to turn his head, so he waited, matching every breath with each step until he was sure that person was standing just behind him.

Suddenly, he was grabbed by the shoulder of the jacket and turned to look straight into the large black eyes of his kidnapper. They were deep like the silent, treacherous waters of a bottomless pit.

"How do I look up close?"

John finally blinked and studied the face looming over his. His focused gaze turned to that of surprise, a surprise that became slowly tinged with dread. He saw it now. "No..."

Jim grinned. "Miss me?"

* * *

><p><em>Have you figured it out yet, Sherlock? Oh, I imagined it. I imagined you setting up your wall with pictures of victims trying to see the thread that connected them. So confused...You probably felt ordinary for a change. Well, you already know who the kid and the old woman are, but even the woman from Cornwall and the young man at Piccadilly Circus had a story. The victims, Karen Verne and Toby Thurston, were the beloved siblings of the rest of Carl's troop. Don't think I forgot about them, too. I made sure they also had front row seats to watch their loved ones entertaining death.<em>

_But even then, I made sure to save the best for last. Always the best for John. I even made sure to give him my most skilled sniper. I owe it to him of course for starting the wheel of events. If anything, it was John who killed little Carl; I was just the poison that stopped his heart. The five pips weren't just five tries to see you fail; they were debts to be paid. See, I owed them a fall, too. And I counted down to the five people that made that day all possible, the day that started us both._

* * *

><p><strong>20 years earlier...<strong>

'TRAGIC CARL DIES'

"This is..." The boy lowered the paper onto the kitchen table, revealing the excitement on his face. "Brilliant!"

His father awoke from the daze he had been in since the start of breakfast. "Oh, Sherlock. You found the paper."

"I can't believe they got something this good so quickly," he said to himself. "This is happening right now!" Sherlock jumped off the chair and bounded for the living room.

After a moment at the empty table, Mr. Holmes called over his shoulder. "Did you manage to find the paper?"

Sherlock stood at the door, rushing to put on his coat when a bark at his knee grabbed his attention. "Redbeard, shh! You can't come with me this time." However, the large curious eyes of his dark red Irish Setter brought on the guilt. "Argh! You seriously can't, boy. But you can walk me out, okay?"

He opened the door with caution. "Now quiet down. We can't let her know."

"Can't let who know?"

Sherlock hitched his breath and looked to the side to find his mother tending to the flowers under the front windows. "Nothing!"

Mrs. Holmes looked him up and down and stood, wiping the dirt from her hands. "And where are you going?" she demanded.

"Ah...the, uh...store."

She put her hands on her hips and stared him down. "Tell me the truth, William."

"Mum! No one calls me that anymore! It's Sherlock, okay!" He walked further down the path, and turned up the collar of his coat. "I'm going to the city."

"Oh, don't be fresh with me, young man," she scolded, walking up to him. "I hate it when you do that collar thing!"

"What collar th—?"

"And the city is no place for a boy your age!"

Sherlock spun around. "I have to do this." He pleaded into her eyes. "There's something going on right now, and I can change it!"

Mrs. Holmes furrowed her brows. "Is it something you read in the papers again?"

He nodded. "But this is different. Something didn't add up. Please."

She sighed, but she knelt down to meet him at eye level. There was something behind the gleam in his eyes that told her his words were true. "Then take this," she said, unwinding the muffler around her neck.

"But, it's not even cold."

"You still need to wear one," she shot back.

"Isn't this the one Myc gave you?" Sherlock said as he watched her wrap it around him.

"Yes," she replied wistfully. "And you miss him, too, right?"

He looked away. "He'll come back on holidays."

Mrs. Holmes smiled. "Well, get going. You have money, right? I want you back by dinner."

Sherlock went out the gate and closed it behind him, leading to a whimper from behind. "I'm sorry, boy," he said, bending down. "But I have to go on this adventure alone. And besides, you're my first mate. You have to man the deck and protect dad from the sea monster," he said, eyeing his mother. He ruffled the top of his head and continued down the main road.

Mrs. Holmes watched her son until he disappeared from view, rubbing her arms at the sudden cold chill. She refused to acknowledge what she had deduced, what her quick mind had already solved for her the second she saw Sherlock open the door—that the son she knew would never be the same after today.

* * *

><p><strong>To be concluded...<strong>

* * *

><p><strong>Westport, Ireland is known as the Botox capital of the world. I imagined Jim's father to be the CEO of a medical conglomerate, so it would have been easier for him to access the botulinum toxin.<strong>

**Karen Verne's name came from the 'The Great Game' case notes from 'Sherlock: The Casebook'.**

**The details of John's kidnapping were based on the events as told on his blog.**


	6. Sleepers

**Thanks for reading! I would have liked to have the whole ending now, but the chapter got too long and, well, more excitement. Oh, and following the suggestion of a fellow reader, I have put this story on ao3 for those who prefer to see it there. Please enjoy!**

* * *

><p><strong>Off the Deep End<strong>

_Chapter 6_

Sleepers...

* * *

><p><strong>221b Baker Street, 2010<strong>

"If you could break any bank, what do you care about the highest bidder?"

"I don't. I just like to watch them all competing. 'Daddy loves me the best!' Aren't ordinary people adorable? Well, you know...You've got John." Jim eyed the chair across from him. Maybe he should have sat in that one after all. "I should get myself a live-in one."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "Why are you doing all of this?"

"It must be so funny," he said, looking off in thought. Yes, how refreshing it would be to have someone so ordinary alongside you. He had felt it once, but he had been trying to forget ever since.

"You don't want money or power. Not really." Sherlock watched Jim bring his eyes down to the apple in his hand as he casually carved into it with his penknife. "What is it all for?" he subtly pressed.

Jim sat forward. "I want to solve the problem—our problem. The final problem." He lowered his head, focusing on the gleam of the knife. "It's gonna start very soon, Sherlock. The fall. But don't be scared. Falling's just like flying except there's a more permanent destination."

He suddenly looked to the ceiling and whistled a descending note only to make a crashing sound when his eyes finally reached the floor. Sherlock bared his teeth at Jim's dissecting glare. How was he so sure about this?

"Never liked riddles," he replied bluntly.

Jim stood and flattened the front of his suit jacket, never removing his gaze from Sherlock. "Learn to. Because I owe you a fall, Sherlock," he said darkly. "I _owe_ you."

* * *

><p><em>I was in your place once. There was a time when I teetered on the edge of good and evil, but John had suddenly pulled me to one side only to launch me deeper to the other end. As for you, he's keeping you on the side of the angels.<em>

_Though when I'm gone, and when he thinks you're gone, feel free to find yourself lost between both sides again. After all, Sherlock, I still owe you a fall; because for me, I've already sunk. I took the fall for John once, and now you have to do the same. It's gotten too comfortable alone down here in the dark, but I suppose there's always room for one more._

* * *

><p><strong>1989<strong>

Sherlock stepped out of the cab and scanned his bright eyes over the now infamous sports center. The entire street was filled with people and flashing lights from the police cars and cameras. The sound filled him with excitement, and he pushed himself through to one end of the police line. Sneaking quickly under the tape, he ducked around the corner of one of the ambulance vehicles. _So they still haven't taken the body yet..._

"Perfect!" he jumped. But immediately, Sherlock covered his mouth and mentally scolded himself. _Can't get too excited yet..._

He sneaked his way through the entrance and down a hallway. He felt like James Bond for a moment...except not as posh. How could he when he was forced to wear his mother's ugly muffler in summer? Suddenly, he heard others approaching and ducked quickly into another room. Sherlock waited for the steps to fade before looking behind him. _The locker room?_

He walked past the aisles of lockers, glancing to every door; however, he stopped when he saw that one still remained closed. It was a bit too peculiar for him, prompting him to use his handkerchief to raise the handle.

On the hook to the right, hanged a white swim jacket; and to the left, a matching gym bag. Sherlock looked to the bottom and to the shelf above, but there was nothing. He stretched the jacket by its fold and read the letters 'DSC' sewn on the back. Sherlock closed his eyes and raised his hands to hover at his temples.

Yes, he remembered it now. This was the right locker.

And very carefully, Sherlock unzipped the bag to find a pair of trousers, a couple shirts, and toiletries. It was such a generic collection that it could have belonged to anyone had it not been for the victim's name at the bottom of the bag.

_No, something's wrong... Something's missing, and it's not just his shoes._

"Find anything?"

Sherlock spun around to the voice behind the door on the opposite end of the room, but his anticipation turned to excitement at the next sentence. "Everything was normal with the basic tests, but we'll see what we can find at the lab."

"Alright, great." The man watched forensics store away the tubes of water samples before turning to face a curly-haired kid who barely reached his chest.

"Where's the body?" he voiced plainly.

The man blinked. "Wha—! Hey, you're not allowed in here!"

"You didn't take it to the morgue yet, did you?" the boy asked, peaking behind him toward the pool.

He grabbed the boy by the arm and continued down the hall toward the exit. "Okay, I'm taking you back outside. Do your parents even know you're here?"

"Relax," the boy said, shrugging off his hold. "I'm Sherlock Holmes. I'm here to help, Sergeant..." He glanced to his identification pass. "Lestrade."

"Well, that's a relief. Now on you go..." He continued to urge him forward, but he furrowed his brows in thought. "Holmes..." He said the name with familiarity, and stopped walking. "Hold on a minute, you don't have a brother named Mycroft, do you?"

"You know Myc? I didn't know he could make friends."

"He didn't," he retorted. "Great, just when I thought one was bad enough."

Sherlock watched Lestrade look to the floor and shake his head. "How do you know him? You don't go to uni do you?"

"What's with all the questions?" he added with annoyance. "And for your information: no. Though he did help me right after my grad—"

"Hold that thought, Lestrade." Sherlock felt his heart pound when he saw a pair of paramedics wheel out a gurney from the pool area. It was covered and tied down with a thick, dark blanket save for the arm that peeked out ever so slightly beneath it.

It strode past them, and Sherlock instinctively followed behind. "Oi, where do you think you're going?" called Lestrade, holding him back with his arm.

"I want to examine the body."

"Oh no you—" Lestrade looked down to the bright, yet determined eyes. "You're a weird kid, you know that?"

Sherlock turned to face him. "Don't you think it strange, those red scratches on his arm?"

"Look, even the papers know," he sighed. "There were no signs of struggle. He just drowned in the middle of the pool."

"A champion swimmer?" Sherlock posed skeptically.

"The investigation is ongoing. Now, see yourself out." Lestrade brushed past him, realizing there was no point in dealing with another Holmes.

"Let me help." Sherlock called to his shrinking back. "The only people that know Myc are ones that have to know him and ones that owe him favors."

"No way. You're just a kid," he called over his shoulder. "There's no way I'm letting you get involved. Else I'll get fired on my first job." He muttered the last part to himself.

"You still have lots of people to interview, right? And by people, I mean the others on Carl Powers' team. You think they'll be more open to you than me?" No way. He had already gotten himself so close. There was no way he was going to let this go. "Now wouldn't that make for a good first impression?"

He heard that, or perhaps...he could tell? Lestrade stopped, and looked back with a wry smile. "Nice try. But you're not your brother."

* * *

><p>"Excuse me, would you happen to know where I can find Daniell Street Comprehensive?" After the rather disappointing encounter with Lestrade, Sherlock bet his next best chance on St. Bartholomew's Hospital. After all, it was the only one within walking distance.<p>

"Um, who are you?" the boy asked. He read the emblem on the boy's jacket: King Edward's. Well, time to get into character.

"Carl was my friend," he sniffled. "I came as soon as I heard. It's just all too..um..." Sherlock looked down, pushing the tears out of his eyes.

"Hey, hey...I'm sorry to hear that," the boy said, putting his hand ever so easily on his shoulder. Sherlock winced at the human contact. "I think they're in the opposite wing."

"Why do you have to wait here?" he said, wiping the tears from his eyes with his thumb.

"Well, one of our own got in an accident at the pool last night, so we're waiting for him to..." He struggled to find the right word. "...recover."

Sherlock blinked and cocked his head to the side. "I didn't read that in the papers."

The boy hesitated. "He wasn't Carl Powers."

* * *

><p>Sherlock walked briskly down the hallway until he saw the correct room number. To his surprise, he already found another person inside. "Sorry. Didn't mean to interrupt. Are you part of the swim competition, too?" <em>Of course he is<em>, he thought. The white swim jacket on the chair near the doorway had told him so. However, before he could confirm the school, the pattern of music notes emanating in the room caught his attention. "Bach, hm... I believe its, um, 'Sleepers...'"

"It's his favorite," said the boy without ever turning to see who was there. "Maybe if he hears it enough, he'll..." His voice cracked.

Sherlock eyed the swim jacket. _Interesting..._ "You seem close though you're on a different team." He was somewhat dismayed when the boy continued to ignore him. "Distant friends, then? Was this a reunion?"

"You ask so many questions."

Sherlock blinked back. He's heard that phrase so many times that it was like a mantra; however, unlike all those times, the way this boy said it was not accusatory but rather matter-of-factly. "So you met here then." He continued to study this person for any hint, but there was nothing to deduce. He felt nothing from him, neither good nor bad.

"Can I ask what happened?" Finally, the boy raised his head and looked to him.

"Who are you?"

"I'm a friend of..." No, he couldn't use the same lie with someone from the same team. And not just that, but the look he was receiving from the boy in the chair made him rethink his options. "...of someone who's down the hall. She's in a coma, too."

The boy's darkened eyes relaxed, and he returned to stare at the patient on the bed. "I'm sorry... He slipped and hit his head."

"How do you know music helps?" Sherlock pressed carefully.

"I..." The boy cleared his throat as if he had not spoken very much for several hours. "I read it in a scientific journal. It suggested people might get better or even wake up after hearing music... Perhaps a song that means something..."

"A scientific journal? Are your parents doctors or something?"

"Not exactly, but I did find it on my father's desk."

He came from quite some background, whoever this kid was. Just then, a loud grumble overcame the music from the headphones. Sherlock cleared his throat in a futile attempt to avoid awkwardness. "Um...have you eaten yet?" The boy nodded to the empty tray lying next to the Discman.

"I think that's for the patients."

"Does he look like he can eat?" Sherlock received the scariest sidelong glance since the time his mother found his collection of live insect larvae.

"Well," he murmured. "Not right now."

The boy was taken back with surprise. "Yeah, not right now..." he echoed, looking to the patient. But after a moment, he turned around. "What's your name?"

"I'm Sherlock," he said, standing straight. "Sherlock Holmes." The questioning look on the boy's face made him shift his feet. "What?"

"Sounds like a girl's name."

"It does not! My brother, Myc, said it suited me."

"Does your brother think a girl's name suits you?"

Sherlock let his mouth hang open. "No way! Ah, forget it; I'll see you later." He was about to stomp past the door but leaned back. "Oh, and I'm sorry about your teammate."

Jim waited until his steps had faded, before glancing back to John. It had been going so well, too.

* * *

><p>"Look, Ms. Friedman, I'm not interrogating you. We just want to know what happened."<p>

"That's exactly it! We don't know what happened!" She sniffed into the handkerchief she held and made a dramatic motion with her hands. "Oh, and now it's all over the papers. That little sneak, Randall—all he wanted was just a front page story," she muttered to herself.

"Who?"

"How can you do this to a lady like me? Can't you see I'm grieving? And poor Carl! What shall I say to his parents?"

Lestrade sighed. He tapped impatiently on the desk of the head nurse's office, which had been used as a makeshift private room. "Ma'am, we know this is hard for you, but we just need to know the truth. Was there anything off about Carl before he got into the water?"

"No...he was just fine. He was in perfect condition to swim."

"Alright, and what about last night?"

"Last night? I—" The color drained from Ms. Friedman's face, prompting Lestrade to lean forward.

"Ma'am?"

"Last night...oh... Nothing happened," she shuddered. "No, we're done here. No more questions." She stood abruptly toward the exit and fought with the doorknob.

"Now, just wait a minute!" Lestrade had gone to her, but Friedman whipped around, snapping the air as she did so.

"And I do not give you permission to speak to any of my students! We'll be on the bus back to Brighton soon enough." She stormed down the hallway and disappeared into the crowd of nurses.

Lestrade watched her go and then turned back to the room. He leant on the desk for support before slamming down on his scant case notes. "Bollocks!"

* * *

><p>Sherlock stared at the sealed breakfast sandwich that sat on the tray before him. Though he had rushed to buy it to go back to his other priorities, he had completely lost his appetite by the time he sat down at one of the cafeteria tables. This case completely consumed him. There were so many little hints here and there; they were just begging to be put together.<p>

Carl Powers, missing shoes, and a comatose swimmer from a different team... What did they all have in common besides the obvious? Where did it lead to? And why did his thoughts always go back to that boy sitting in the patient's room?

_That's it!_

Sherlock stood, nearly knocking over his chair. Carl's team... He needed to see the other members. One of them must know something.

Just then, he heard an audible sigh from behind him.

Lestrade groaned into his hands and slid them over his eyes, leaning his weight on his elbows. He looked up wearily when he heard someone pull out the chair in front of him.

"How's your interviewing?"

"You're still here?" He turned in his chair so he didn't have to face him, taking out a pack of cloves from his breast pocket. "Not well, mind you."

"You know you can't smoke here right?" Lestrade dragged out an exhale before reluctantly replacing his cigarettes.

Sherlock watched as the sergeant pinched at the space between his eyes, feeling a bit disappointed that neither of them have moved forward. "Are you sure you can't use me?"

"I'm fine," he bit back. "I just need to make a call." Lestrade reached into the pocket of his trench coat and dropped his mobile on the table with a loud clunk.

"I certainly hope you didn't pay for that out of your own pocket," said Sherlock, eyeing the unique device. He had read about it in the technology section of the paper, which praised it as "the new wave of the future".

Lestrade flashed his characteristic no-nonsense glare from beneath his brows before standing to leave. "Excuse me."

Wandering down hallways, he eventually came to stop at the window to stare up at the gray clouds. "Yeah, did you find anything connected to the article and this 'Randall' person?" He pressed his ear against the receiver. "What? That's his middle name? Well, you find this Frank Randall Hudson and bring him straight to the department. He might know what happened last night... Yeah, right... Heaven forbid he runs out of the country."

Lestrade pressed the 'End' button harshly, but a voice behind him called his attention. "Inspector..."

"It's just Sergeant," he said, turning around. He scanned his eyes quickly to the middle-aged man in uniform wheeling around a receptacle and mop.

"There was something strange last night," the man whispered, glancing to the side. "Didn't make it into the papers."

Lestrade tilted his head to the side, and closed the distance between them. "Go on."

* * *

><p>A block away from the hospital, Sherlock closed door of the phone booth behind him. After seeing Lestrade go, he realized that he, too, needed to do the same. The investigation was going nowhere with just two at the scene. He heard the phone click. "Myc?"<p>

"Sherlock, what is it you want? You know I'm busy." The voice was monotonously slow and droning, which seemed to blend well with the static of the telephone.

He took a deep breath. "Does Sherlock sound like a girl's name?"

After a moment of silence, the voice returned. "I'm going to hang up now."

"No, no, no, wait!" he said urgently. "Okay the real reason I called is that I'm at St. Bart's right now, and—"

"Don't tell me you're trying to solve that 'drowned swimmer' case."

"It's fine," he impelled. "Mummy gave me permission. But look, I really think there needs to be a real investigation here. Something's just not right. And your incompetent not-friend Lestrade won't take my help."

"Oh, Gregory finally got his first case; I shall congratulate him later."

"Who? I'm talking about Lestrade."

"Oh, Sherlock," he heard his brother scoff. "Your incapability with first names is a wonder. And it's obvious as to why he's not letting you help. He's a professional, and you're a child. You can't help with this one, dear brother."

"I can too!" he yelled into the transmitter. "Please, can you just help me. I know you have connections to Scotland Yard."

"The answer is no, Sherlock."

"But why?"

"It is no place for you." He emphasized the last word.

Sherlock's eyes widened, and he gripped the handset tightly. "I'll decide my own place, My—!" he shot; however, he was interrupted by a sound click. "Myc? Myc... Mycroft!" He slowly moved the phone away and stared at it incredulously as if his brother was still there. But when he heard the dial tone, he slammed it back on its switchhook yet refused to release it. _Why? Why did you...?_

* * *

><p>"Why are you here? I already told you; you have no right to question my students!" Ms. Friedman strode across the waiting room, ignoring the glances from the people sitting down.<p>

Lestrade stood smug as she put her face in front of his. "Actually, I do if there's enough proof to put one of them at the crime scene."

"What crime scene? We were all there!" She pushed up her think rims and glared up at him.

"No, not today's. The night before." He rolled his shoulders, keeping his hands in his pockets. "See, I've taken accounts from the pool's caretaker and the doctors here, and we know that you were aware of your students getting involved with that kid from King Edward's whose lying in a coma right now."

Friedman took a couple steps back, but straightened up and lifted her chin. "Then you best prepare a lawyer and a warrant."

"Oh, I can do that, yeah," he sauntered toward her, and a smirk raised the corner of his mouth. "And while we're at it, I can also charge you with obstructing police business."

"What?" She dropped her arms at her side.

"You were lying. You lied to me." He dropped the words upon her without warning. "And I have enough witnesses to charge you with a criminal offense." Lestrade looked up and then back down into her eyes. "Unless..." he said quietly.

Friedman stood paralyzed. Without so much as a blink, she called to one of the students sitting behind her. "Cole...fetch Jim."

No one moved for those couple minutes, until the boy returned with the new spark of evidence in this dimming case.

Lestrade stared down at the witness, whose dark eyes he knew were full of the answers he was looking for. "Ah, finally."

* * *

><p><strong>Daniell Street Comprehensive is the school Carl Powers attended according to 'Sherlock: The Casebook'.<strong>

**I'd like to imagine that this paper inspired part of Jim's spiel: "Comatose and head-injured patients: Application for music in treatment."(1989) by Boyle, M. E..**

**Greg's model of mobile is the Motorola MicroTac 9800X.**

**The paper Sherlock read was "Motorola Has a Pocket-Sized Cellular Phone" from the Los Angeles Times. With inefficient access to the Internet, I imagined him making the effort to grab international newspapers (haha).**

**Laws and rights were based on my amateur and fallible interpretation of articles on the UK government website.**


	7. Awake

**Thank you very much! It has been an honor writing for you!**

* * *

><p><strong>Off the Deep End<strong>

_Chapter 7_

...Awake

* * *

><p><strong>St. Bartholomew's rooftop, 2010<strong>

"Keep your eyes fixed on me! Please, will you do this for me?" he said frantically into the phone.

John squinted to the roof. "Do what?"

"This phone call... It's, er...it's my note." He pressed his lips together to regain composure. "It's what people do, don't they... Leave a note?"

John lingered on his reply, and took the phone away from his ear in disbelief. After a shaky breath, he brought it back. "Leave a note when?"

"Goodbye, John."

The words fell like a weight on his chest. "No..." He shook his head and stepped back. "Don't."

John looked on in horror when his friend's only reply was discarding the phone behind him before spreading his arms out to his side.

"No! Sherlock!"

* * *

><p><strong>Three floors below, 1989<strong>

Jim pressed his hands over his face, letting the water cool his eyes and forehead. He turned off the faucet and stared ahead to the mirror. He no longer recognized this person, whose pallid countenance struck a contrast with the dark undertones beneath the eyes. And the expression—it was as if fate had dealt him a bad hand in the final round of the game.

He looked at the hue of the light that streamed between buildings and through the hallway windows; it was already nearing mid-afternoon. He knew he had to leave soon, but he couldn't stand the thought of abandoning that hospital room. Hell, he had even debated against going just now. Maybe he could leave something behind... Someone would be bound to find it and give it to John when the time came.

Jim stopped walking. _If it came..._

Regardless, he had no intention of severing the bond that they had made even if only one of them remained holding on. Just then, he heard his name from behind him.

"There you are," said Cole. "Friedman's looking for you."

His heart skipped a beat. "It's too early to leave."

"No, it not that. There's a...detective who wants to talk to you for some reason."

Jim stared at him for a moment before reluctantly turning his feet to follow him. Looking out through the windows, his eyes glazed over at this sight considered "freedom". He clenched his fists. Nothing would sever this bond.

* * *

><p>Sherlock walked with his head down; the light in his step he had earlier was now gone. Did he believe he could do this himself? True, he was still a child, but he had never before realized how helpless he really was until now.<p>

When he heard the familiar music streaming through the open door, he leaned behind the frame and popped his head into the room. "You know, I never caught your—?"

He lingered on the last syllable at the sight of the empty room. Well, technically it wasn't. Sherlock leaned back out and glanced to both ends of the hallway before deciding it was alright to invite himself in.

"Sorry for he intrusion," he said, pulling out the clipboard at the foot of the bed. "Mr. John H. Watson. Oh look, we're the same age." He put it back, and stood closer to the bedside. "Well, I trust you'll tell me what the H stands for when you wake up." Sherlock put his hands in his pockets and looked around he room, rocking back and forth on his heels as he did so. He stopped when his eyes fell on the matching jacket and sports bag on the chair near the entrance.

Sherlock closed the distance between them and looked down at the belongings. The bag hadn't been touched since he was last here, but the letters on the jacket's back had become somewhat obscured. He reached down and felt where the pockets were, but they were empty. On the other hand, the sports bag was nearly filled to bursting. _Wow.. What kind of swimming does he do anyway?_

But something pricked at his attention. Sherlock turned toward the bedside table and eyed the Discman that had been repeating the same song since he arrived—actually, since the first time he came to this room. _Persistence_, he thought, raising his eyebrows.

"I know this song," said Sherlock as he tapped at his chin. "I almost had it earlier...hmm...ah! 'Sleepers, Awake'!" He turned to the patient. "Hear that, John? I figured out your favorite."

John's only response was his rhythmic breathing falling in sync with the beeping monitors. The steady rise and fall of his chest showed he still had the strength to inhale independently despite the layers of bandages wrapping his head. Sherlock followed the wires stemming out from under his shirt and down his arms when he noticed the most peculiar thing. He bore down at the sight with observant eyes before slowly looking back to John's tranquil face.

"So you do have something to tell, after all."

* * *

><p>"Now, your classmates call you Jim, is that right?" Lestrade sat with his hands clasped on the desk of the nurse's office. Across from him, a boy, who was smaller than the others behind Ms. Friedman, stared out the window at his side. He hadn't made a single sound though the depth in his eyes told the sergeant he had quite a lot to tell.<p>

"Do you know why I called for you?" he said, leaning forward.

"I don't have to answer," Jim said quietly.

Lestrade raised his eyebrows; he didn't realize kids brushed up on their legal studies so early. Or maybe he was just an exception. "I know you don't. That's your right. But you are old enough to be in court and silence could also be used against you." Jim narrowed his eyes at that.

"Did you know Carl well?"

Jim sighed and looked at him directly. "Too well."

"Can you elaborate?"

"We were in the same school, got on the same swim team, and even had to room together."

"Right..." Lestrade would have called out his sarcasm, but the bitterness in his answer held him back. "Now did you notice anything off about him this morning? The accounts of your teacher and classmates said you weren't present during the time of his event."

"I was having some issues."

"Care to explain?"

He waited as the boy reached into the pocket of his trousers to present an inhaler. "Asthma," he said simply.

"Hm," he nodded. "So you didn't see him?"

"I was using the toilet."

"Alright, alright," said Lestrade. He was getting annoyed with the situation; these questions were leading him nowhere. "What about last night?"

The change in expression on the boy's face told him he hit the nail on the head. "Yeah, I know. I know about the one comatose patient here, and I know you were both rushed here from the pool."

"I...found him like that."

"And how did you know he'd be there?" Jim opened and closed his mouth as if to say something but gulped instead. Lestrade noticed, pressing on. "Do you know what happened?"

"I told you," Jim emphasized. "I found him like that. I didn't see anyone."

"Did that kid do something to make you angry?"

Jim blinked back. "What are you saying?"

"Was the same person who did this to Carl, do the same to that boy?" Lestrade spoke quickly, but pronounced the key words clearly.

Jim gripped the edge of the desk. "What...?" he said weakly. His breathing had become audible as if he were exhausted. "Did what to Carl?"

"You tell me," Lestrade said sternly, never taking his eyes of him. "From how things look, it wouldn't be surprising if someone got a little bit too competitive for this swim meet, right? It's one of the biggest in the year, after all. Now who are you protecting? Is it someone on your team? One of your friends?" The questions had come in a rush like an unstoppable current he had no hope of holding back.

Jim looked down to his lap, his gaze lacking focus. He was losing his control. The same surge of adrenaline he felt when he killed Carl had returned to flow through his veins again. He looked up to the sergeant and identified the emotion in his eyes: Ruthlessness. Pure ruthlessness. And to a child no less. No...he wasn't a child anymore. In less than a day he had taken his innocence, tore it to shreds, and left the massacre at his feet. But the darkness was warm, and it wrapped Jim in a comfort he had never known. If this is how the world will see him now, then he would not disappoint.

"You want to know what happened to poor Carl?"

The melodic rise and falls of the question snapped Lestrade out of his focus. "What?"

"Why the country's champion swimmer sank to the bottom without so much as a struggle?" Lestrade slid his arms off the surface and and down to his lap. A sudden chill ran up his spine as he took a new look at the boy in front of him. It was like he had begun conversing with a completely different person.

Jim leaned his arm on the desk and looked at Lestrade from the side, reveling in the other's fear and uncertainty. That's exactly the reaction he wanted. Oh, and he loved it; he loved being the cause and the center of attention. _This_ was entertainment. He wished this thrill would never end.

A cruel smile twisted the corner of his lips. "The one who—"

"Lestrade!"

The door had swung open, causing a loud clang in the room. Sherlock looked from the sergeant to the boy across from him with surprise. But before he could ask his question, Lestrade shot up from his seat. "You!"

"Come quick!" said Sherlock, thinking fast. "Um, the Chief Inspector is here to see you."

"What?"

"Hurry! He's just about fed up looking for you." Sherlock stepped aside to clear the path.

"Say what?" With a constrained expression, he looked down at Jim and pointed at him. "You stay here."

Once Lestrade was out of earshot, Sherlock went back inside. "Follow me."

* * *

><p>"What is it?" Jim asked, stopping at the doorway of John's room. His eyes followed Sherlock who walked to stand beside the bed.<p>

"Your friend didn't fall by accident, you know?" Jim felt his eye twitch, and his lips pried apart revealing his grit teeth. However, before he could say anything, Sherlock continued. He pointed down at John's hands, and looked to Jim. "There's blood under his fingernails."

Jim quietly let out a sigh, but a realization dawned on him that renewed the tension. Things were beginning to add up. This person before him wasn't as he seemed; he should have noticed it before. This boy had walked into the hospital room and immediately knew he and John were on different teams. To be so certain about an unlikely situation—did he ask around? Or did he just figure it out himself? He also seemed to be acquainted with the sergeant, so what kind of connections did he have? But that wasn't the tipping point. He suddenly remembered what the sergeant had said ever so quickly. What was his phrasing? Oh yes: "the one comatose patient here".

So, he, himself, wasn't the only liar in the room. Someone else was running their own show.

"So I figure you and I can go to the police and get them involved. I mean Lestrade keeps refusing me, but maybe we can go directly to Scotland Yard," he continued. "And why were you with Lestrade anyway?" Sherlock turned around, but he had failed to notice that Jim was already standing behind him.

He had the most piercing gaze, but the rest of his body looked calm and relaxed. Sherlock was startled to the point that he stumbled backwards and bumped against the bedside table, causing the Discman to skip and stop.

"Um..."

Jim and Sherlock stared at each other in surprise, realizing that neither of them had made that sound. Their heads whipped around to the person on the bed, whose eyes were slowly opening and closing.

Sherlock quickly moved aside and back to the doorway as Jim dragged the seat close to the bedside. "John..."

"What happened?" he said groggily.

"Don't worry about that now," coaxed Jim, tears pricking at his eyes. "How do you feel?"

"Um...fine. Tired, but fine." John craned his neck toward Jim, still blinking back sleepiness. "Where are we?"

"St. Bartholomew's... Not too far from the pool." Jim followed John's eyes, which fell on the Discman. "Oh, here," he said, turning it on to play that song. His hand lingered on the 'Play' button, and he closed his eyes in relief. "I'm so glad you're—"

"I've heard that song before. This one, right here." John looked to the ceiling and furrowed his brows. "Hm...but I can't seem to remember from where." Shaking his head, he looked back to the side. "Hey, um...you mentioned the pool. Does that mean we've gotten to London yet? I was... I was supposed to come down for a meet with my school, King Edward's. Do you know them?"

It was then that John's smile faltered. The boy next to him had turned to face him with an expression he couldn't define. His eyes were shiny and his bottom lip quivered as he gaped at him open-mouthed. "Sorry, are you alright? If, um, you're a volunteer here would you mind finding my coach? I have to phone my sister, and my dad's—"

"Gone," said the boy abruptly. "...abroad. I'll get him." He quickly got out of the chair and headed for the exit.

John's concerned gaze switched from the boy to the curious music player beside him. "Oh, and, uh, this?"

He came to a halt with his back to him. "It was left here."

"By who?"

"An admirer," the boy shrugged. "...maybe."

"Uh...hey..." But before John could stop him, he had already turned out the doorway.

Sherlock had watched the entire scene and stood frozen. Jim had gone past him so quickly that he hadn't even prepared anything to say. In fact, he had walked out without taking all his belongings. Sherlock grabbed the jacket and ran down the darkening hallway. "Wait!" He stopped, to his surprise, but didn't turn to face him. "Look...he was in a coma for nearly twenty-four hours, right? I read somewhere that sometimes...these things..."

"I know."

Sherlock winced at the resolute tone. "Well...here," he said holding out the jacket. "You forgot this...um..." He read the tag on the collar. "James, is it?"

He reached back to grab it and swing over his shoulder while adjusting his heavy sports bag. "It's not James," he struggled to say. "It's Jim."

Sherlock remained and watched until that shrinking back turned the corner and out of sight.

* * *

><p><em>I remember that day well, Sherlock.<em>

_Who wouldn't remember the day they died? I went off the deep end for someone who didn't even bother to remember. It was just one little push; that's all it took. Before then I was doing just fine, you know! Yes, I carried the toxin with me preparing for that day, but think of it as just a precaution. And then John waltzes in and shows me what my life could be only to snatch it away just as quickly. Maybe Carl Powers could have lived; maybe I could have just let it go on my own. Then maybe, I could have been like you. Back then, I believed that if I had never met John, I wouldn't have felt the loss that pushed me to the edge._

_But you know, I realized something. It would have been boring to be just like you. What if we were on the same side? I shudder to think! Perhaps John's role was to dictate fate and set us both on opposite ends. Oh, he's the true villain here, always has been. I'm sure he and I were both disheartened when he returned from war...alive. But John is so funny. He likes that sort of thing. Out of the fire and into the frying pan for him. And now, here he is running around with you of all people. It's just all so laughable. I wonder, do you have the same disregard for his life as he does?_

_Ooh, and I have to tell you what I did at the pool. I just have to tell you: I told him my secret. I showed him my true face. I don't know what it was, Sherlock, but there was just the teensiest glimmer of hope that he would know. But he got it right away. To him, I was just "Jim from IT". A small part of me wanted to blow us up right there, but it just was not possible without reuniting with you. It simply wouldn't have been the same without all three of us._

_If you think about it, Sherlock, you're the true final pip while John would be the one to see you fall. And although he may not show it, oh, he'll cry buckets and buckets. It's him that I worry about the most. That wife! I'd really like to think that I didn't just find John only to pay him back in the end, to have him know true loss. But the stage it set, my dear, and we all have our roles to play._

* * *

><p>"But, sir. I believe there's a case here. If you can just give me—" Lestrade was silenced by the roaring voice of the Chief Inspector on the other end of the line. He had already infuriated him with his previous questions, bringing nothing but confusion between them. "Okay, alright," he said dismayed. "I...understand."<p>

Lestrade closed the phone and shook his head at the pavement. He had rushed down to the entrance in hopes of catching his superior, but when he called him, it was like he had never even arrived in the first place. _What the hell was that?_ But Lestrade looked up in disbelief when it hit him. _Oh, no... It was that kid!_

"Damn!" He spun around for the entrance, but something caught his eye from the periphery. Down at the far end of the street, a bus was loading a group of students in white jackets. But Lestrade fought the urge to chase after them for there had no longer been any point in doing so. Everything had already been called off, and so he stood staring hopelessly after his last shred of evidence until it was driven off into the sea of traffic.

It was as if all his energy had been drained out of him, which forced Lestrade to sit down on the curb, pressing his face into his hands. Just then, a ring emanated from his pocket.

"Hello?" he groaned into phone.

"Gregory."

"Oh no..." The voice was beckoning with a hint of condescension; it could only belong to one person. "Mycroft Holmes... You know, I've had a pretty bad day, and I—"

"Any progress with the investigation?"

He tilted his head to the side. "And how did you know about that?"

"Word gets around."

"Yeah, you have eyes and ears everywhere, don't you?" he scoffed. "Well, to answer your question: no. And now my superiors don't even want me to continue." Lestrade pinched at the space between his eyes. "Might as well just hand in my resignation right now."

"Nonsense," Mycroft said firmly. "You're persistence is precisely why I recommended you in the first place. Although you do sacrifice efficiency."

"Alright, it was going so well. Don't make me want to hit you." He paused. "Wait, are you asking for a favor?"

"More like relieving you of your debt. I believe you're acquainted with my brother."

"You mean that brat, Sherlock?"

"Well, it certainly isn't the other one..." muttered Mycroft.

"What?"

"Nothing. Don't concern yourself. What I was meaning to say was that when you become Detective Inspector, I want you to to take my brother under your wing."

Lestrade looked up and furrowed his brows. "I'm sorry, I understood nothing."

"Of course. I realize who I'm speaking to now." Mycroft cleared his throat. "I want you to allow my brother to assist in your future investigations."

"Do you realize what you're asking and how today has gone?" he snapped. "He's done nothing but interrupt every step of the way."

"Believe me, under that unscrupulous exterior he is surprisingly insightful. He is my brother after all." Mycroft's voice softened a bit. "Though after today, he may not want to be. See, I may have disappointed him, and this is my start to making amends."

Lestrade exhaled loudly from his nose in concession. He half-believed in what Mycroft's was saying, so he felt half-obligated to carry out his promise. "Alright, fine. But only if I make it that far."

"Oh, and do go easy on him. I've just been informed one of our family members has taken ill."

"I'm sorry to hear that. Are you gonna be alright?"

"I am barely concerned," he said with emphasis. "But it's Sherlock who won't take the news well."

"Well, okay. I'll send him home then."

"You have my gratitude."

* * *

><p>Lestrade scoured the floors for Sherlock, but after a quarter of an hour, the boy was nowhere to be found. He even debated whether he should inspect the mortuary. But just when the sergeant thought he was down on his luck, he saw a group of kids in red crowding around one of the rooms. He stepped closer and saw that the patient was surrounded by nurses and doctors, who were busy checking his eye movements.<p>

"It's a miracle." Lestrade turned to the side and saw a man dressed in the same red jacket. "I'm still speechless about all this."

"You're his coach? Did this just happen?" The man nodded. "Then—"

"But he doesn't remember anything." The coach eyed him warily. "I know who you are, Inspector. However, the entire trip has been wiped from his memory."

"Well, that's convenient," shrugged Lestrade. "And it's 'Sergeant', by the way." He walked down the hallway, but turned back after a few steps. "Oh, you wouldn't happen to have seen a curly-haired brat wearing a blue muffler, would you?"

* * *

><p>Lestrade pushed open the metal door and rested it against the cinder block that had sat there previously. And as expected, he saw Sherlock overlooking the streets below that basked in the light of the setting sun. On any other occasion, he would have chastised him for sneaking to the roof; but after all that happened, he was sure the boy felt just as worn down as he did.<p>

"Hey, kid. What's wrong?" he asked, reaching into his breast pocket.

"I guess the investigation in over." Sherlock sighed and kept his half-lidded eyes on the stalled cars.

Lestrade lit the end of the cigarette and puffed at his much needed smoke. "Did you see the victim?"

"I wasn't allowed in the mortuary."

Lestrade shook his head in amusement. Perhaps he knew this brat better than he thought. "No... I meant the other victim—the one that just woke up."

Sherlock bit his bottom lip in contempt. He saw everything he needed to in order to solve this case and he knew it, but he just couldn't bring himself to piece it together. He wanted to, but something inside told him he wasn't ready for the answer. Not yet, at least. He felt that if he did give himself the chance to figure it out, he would no longer want to be on this side of justice. And that worried him. Therefore, he had no choice but to do his best and forget. "These kind of things happen to too many people, Lestrade—people not important enough to remember."

Lestrade blinked back at Sherlock's unexpected dark tone. It was as if something had broken in the boy, and he had failed to see the cause. "Don't say that," he said, grabbing his shoulder. "Come on, keep up your spirits. A case is only closed if you give up."

* * *

><p><strong>Years later...<strong>

"Oh, I may be on the side of the angels, but don't think for one second that I am one of them."

Jim held Sherlock's gaze, looking from one eye to the other as he tried to dissect this ominous aura he got from him. "No, you're not."

He closed his eyes and what came to the surface were memories of the days that shaped his life—this life. And when he opened them, he saw a mirror. It was so clear. "I see," he said softly. "You're not ordinary. No... You're me."

He could barely contain his excitement. "You're me! Thank you!" He had nearly reached up to touch him but couldn't bring himself to taint this perfect representation. Instead, he held out his hand.

"Sherlock Holmes..." He was the only one awful enough to steal the weapon he used and the only one scary enough to use it against him. Yes... This person here was the only one capable of living his life, to drown in the darkness. Jim was almost on the verge of tears. For the second time in his life, he didn't feel alone.

"Thank you," he nodded. "Bless you. As long as I'm alive, you can save your friends. You've got a way out." He held Sherlock's hand tighter to distract him from the envelope he slid into his coat. He then retrieved his hand to reach for the cool metal beneath his own.

"Well, good luck with that."

* * *

><p><em>There's only one ending I desire, and if you have read this then you have brought me to it. Thank you, Sherlock. Thank you. I only ask one thing. Just one favor from you.<em>

_Don't tell John. This may be perhaps the only good thing that I have ever done and ever will do. After all, he doesn't belong in our world. And you know why._

_But I suppose that's why we were so attached to him in the first place. It's awful, isn't it? This thing they call a heart._

_So don't fear it. Pain. Heartbreak. Loss. Death. It's all good._

_Remember my words, Sherlock. Someday you'll forget because you'll think they're unimportant. But one day that hard drive of yours is going to be in trouble, and you'll find me in the darkest pit of your mind. Then you'll ask why I, the world's consulting criminal, had never felt pain. Well, now you know. You always feel it, Sherlock. So lock me inside but don't throw away the key because you can't afford to forget this time._

_Very sincerely yours,_

_James_

* * *

><p>"I was so alone, and I owe you so much." John let his hand drop reluctantly from the tombstone. "Okay."<p>

He had begun to walk away, but a sinking feeling in his chest forced him to turn around. "No, please. There's just one more thing...one more thing—one more miracle, Sherlock, for me. Don't...be...dead. Would you do—just for me. Just stop it. Stop this."

For once, the soldier had lost composure. But just as if he were called back into the line of duty even without his troop, he carried on. About face. Forward march.

Sherlock watched John go in stride; and when his form had disappeared behind a tombstone, he, too, turned for the opposite direction. The letter in his hand felt heavy, and he kept his firm gaze set forward.

_I wonder if those words could have been for you._

The flame of the lighter clawed at the corner of the envelope and grew to consume it entirely. _But you are right. About John, that is._ The floating bits of black paper disintegrated from between his fingers.

And for the first time, Sherlock did not desire to deduct through this mystery—Moriarty's final riddle. Perhaps its answer would be best kept submerged. But that was just fine with him; he had never learnt to like riddles anyway.

**Off the Deep End.**

* * *

><p>Lennox Case: When it came to writing this story, I wanted to portray the parallels between Jim and Sherlock. I believed it was plausible that they could have lived the same life, but one thing happened along the way that caused Jim to turn from the side of the angels. And because John is so indispensable to Sherlock, I thought why not for Jim, too. Perhaps if things had turned out differently, he and John could have been the ones solving crimes instead. Anyway, thank you for giving this a chance, and thank you again for reading!<p> 


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